October in the garden.

The plums have gone,

Mostly, but some

Hang, limp and withered.

Tiny corpses dangling.

From twisted trees.

Shrivelled reminders

Of seeds that will not grow.

 

The branches are claws.

They tear the sky,

Shredding summer.

Slashing, leaf by leaf,

Lush, fertile, summer dreams.

That idyll is over.

A blanket of decay

Moulders at your feet.

October, you are barren

And bleak.

 

By Fiona Lochhead October 2011

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