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.