The apples are full, ripe as the setting sun
And the berries are as dark as the dusk.
The air has that feel of a fading heat
In the end of a long summer eve.
Already the trees show that fading fall
At the end of some mystical note
Of wind in the rushes, or gulls in the sky.
Of martens preparing to leave.
In the flood of the tide, in its stealthy advance
To a spring height, the gulls swoop to feed
On the last of the whitebait, the end of the spawn,
While the waves break hard on the strand.
And the moths fly upward, the midges gang by pools
While the dunlin take wing to their roost.
The owl comes hunting with a mournful shriek
Flying silent across the grey land.
The darkness creeps to the edge of the world
And the pinks leave the sky to the pipistrelles
Who swoop on the midges and moths, while the last
Of the colour drains fast from the sky.
A cold wind sweeps in from the warmth of the sea
To the cool of the innermost land.
A dew will set by the end of the night,
And the last days of this summer will die.
© Martin Porter 2000
September Dunes explores the change from Summer to Autumn. It has a relatively free style, constrained only by unusual rhyme scheme.
This poem is still very raw and is awaiting further editing. Poems that are incomplete or unpolished are valuable resources as records of development, sources of material and perhaps may mature into finished (if there is such a thing) poems. I keep a folder labelled “Hospital” for works in progress. Some of my critics have suggested it should be renamed “Asylum”.