Poem: September is Here

September is Here

and I want to feel the tingle
of autumn over the horizon.
The palette of skies, laying themselves
nightly before my eyes like Turkish
carpets in the souks of Istanbul.
I want to anticipate the nuanced change
of the leaves, delicate as if the maestro
himself draws them into the rising
crescendo of the orchestra – slowly,
softly, instrument by instrument,
tree by tree, colour by colour
until the cymbals clash and the double
basses vibrate their music through
the woods and lanes.

I want to watch the swallows gather
on the telephone wires, line upon
line, their eyes on horizons I cannot
even imagine; waiting for the wind
to call them, the stars to set their orbit
across the world.
I want to see the berries fall
ripe and rotten into the hollows of
the hedge, so unseen creatures
can have their bacchanal,
their last fling of the  season, then
reel home through the undergrowth
replete and tipsy, to sleep the winter away.

I want to walk to the shore and hear
the waves rising up in anger,
beating back the beaches,
sucking up the stones and hurling
them at the cliffs in fits of
equinoctial rage.

Most of all, I just want to feel
vibrancy, not deal with autumn playing
fast and loose – doling out fitful sun,
welters of drab rain; gales that blow
and pause and then roar in again, battering
my garden of deceased flowers and sad
stalks bent double with despair,
rotting where they fall. And all
in light that barely lifts its head,
light that is just a brief apology
for being short and low and hesitant;
no longer flaring with summer’s lusty
fervour – breaking in and waking me
at 4am just to whisper sweet nothings
through the chink in the curtains.

I want something other than
the torpor of half-arsed endings.
What happened to mellow fruitfulness?
Give me liquid golden light that makes me
look up, look out; something to cradle
in my mind through winter. Give me
that wild transition I know this season
keeps secreted up its sleeves, to
compensate for all the untold things
summer always snatches as she leaves,
like a jilted lover.
So autumn, please, no fickle
promises of crisp, cold days that don’t
materialise. Step up; pull your finger out –
go French – Italian – go Portuguese;
bring on the colours and the lights,
run your hit show again. You can do it.
Don’t tease, don’t cheat by sneaking limply
past, skulking like a thief between the hot
dog days and winter’s sharp retreat.