The Ritual of Autumn (The Gathering)


The bank beneath the shedding larch

Was studied gold with chanterelle.

A basket twice the size of this

Would hold a half the mushrooms in.


Above, a goldcrest flicked at webs,

Its call so high I’d miss it soon:

Too old to reach its pitch of life.

The needle fevered goldcrest picked.


A year of rain had swollen leaves.

A hawthorn hedge was rich with birds:

A chirm of finches, families grouped,

Were gorging through the glut of fruit.


The rites of gleaning, rites of growth,

With chants of birds and scent of earth.

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