September clouds stream in.
Their westerlies humming flights
Of song in the loops of slung wires;
Filling the sails of the trees, and
Sending the hillside scudding
Away from the Sun.
And the long summer days
Wind down to this; keening
The fields with the memory
Of her kiss.
Blackberry bright were her eyes
When it was the planting time,
And we bent together into the wind,
Pushing the plump, purple seeds,
One by one, into the yielding earth.
We sow and reap, reap and sow,
But not for me, now, the warm,
Sweet, harvest fruit of her mouth.
Only these bright berries, tangled
In the hedge; crushed upon my tongue.
Seeded full with the remembered warmth
Of the Sun, the scent of the earth,
And the quiet taste of rain.
