October passing

 

While I fill my hours at other tasks

beneath the flicker of stolen days,

a thought strays to a light-footed bird,

tweed brown and grey . . .

It chances the open for a seed,
until a bolder one floats in
with its colour to chase clouds away . . .

Then a finch who will leave soon,
and a titmouse who will stay . . .

And over them on strands of cumulus
a tumult of white wings . . .

Theirs is the sound of October passing.
It rings within the round hills and
meets the lake . . .

where small fishing birds pause to listen . . .

And eagles, weary of the wind and its promises,
settle into their night roost
among the naked poplars.