30 September – The gall of it

Which wasp larvae have had the gall
to irritate this wild rose into growing a ball
of frantic, frenetic feathered growth? –
a beautiful, living, practical joke.
For the last laugh is on any bush or tree
whose defence can be used symbiotically
to create such a perfect nesting place
for a new swarm’s cosy nursery space.

27 September – Out of season

Raspberries and crocuses growing in September
cause Autumn to pause, and us to remember
Spring and Summer as if they were still here
with lost colours, tastes and warmth suddenly brought back near.
This is the gorgeous, irresistible reason
for growing varieties that feel out of season.
For what could be more fun than time travel plants
that whisk you back and forth as the year departs?

26 September – Downpipe drama

The downpipe was emanating a strange fluttering sound,
so we gingerly took it apart to see what would be found.
We expected a butterfly who’d somehow lost its way
rather than a coal tit turned miner, tunnelling for the day.
What possessed it to dive down our gutter’s water slide,
it was, of course, utterly unable to confide.
We set it, bedraggled and dazed, to dry out in the sun
and trust it fully recovered, for later it was gone.
The very next Thursday, while drinking our morning tea,
what should we chance to look out the window and see
but a coal tit perched on the buddleia in the pouring rain…
I’m hoping, if it’s the same one, it won’t get drenched again!

26 September - Downpipe drama

25 September – Daylight robbery

The first leaves to fly
are pilfered not fallen,
as a moody Friday wind
gustily breaks their fragile hold
and seizes them for itself.
Tossed up as well as down,
they flicker and wheel
like drunken sailor butterflies
at the mercy of contradicting currents
overwhelming their tiny wings.
I witness the crime,
caught in a snow globe
of stolen tree confetti
while the gasping, grasping gale
thieves my breath too,
and blows it who knows where.

24 September – The tiptoe tree

Down where the river swells wide
and greedily licks the bank
in premonition and echo of flood,
a brave alder stands resolute tall.
A persistent survivor
of constant colonising land grabs,
it clings to its diminishing earth,
rising on tiptoe to straddle the fleeing ground
and remain balanced,
poised and elegant above the fray.
I think of a ballerina’s strength
ascending en pointe,
and applaud the beautiful struggle
of the alder’s stoic dance.

23 September – Uninvited sun

I wonder which bird it was that dropped their tea
in the terracotta pot under the viburnum tree?
For we certainly didn’t plant a sunflower seed,
and although of course I wouldn’t say it was a weed,
one is flowering uninvited all the same.
But as drizzle sets in, and our remaining blooms fade,
it’s fabulous to find a brand new sun displayed,
so we welcome it gladly though it shines out of place,
a beautiful surprise; an unexpected grace.

22 September – Woodland tricks

There’s something about woodland
that weaves tall tales from thin air,
then embroiders them
with thick undergrowth and dappled shade.
Life and story blur and meld
into something both and neither
as the impossible trespasses into truth.
Here, everything is close to being something else,
shifting shape or casting shadow
to wear imagination’s form as its own.
Today, there’s a fallen branch
emerging from the leaf mulch
with a face so suggestive of snake
that I hurry past its slithering
before it can follow me home.

21 September – River tree

Low light polishes the river to mirror shine,
projecting flying ripples on to the overhang
to dance along its branches like water flames
licking the wood with dappling burn,
until it becomes a web of suspended tributaries
rather than a solid, rooted, growing mass.
I stop to enter the illusion,
embrace still set elevated to cinematic motion
as light pulls its playful tricks
and quasi-consumes the river tree
with liquid luminescence.

20 September – Landing strip

We didn’t know we were on a flight path,
circling the reservoir at Thruscross
and chatting away the afternoon.
Our attention was on the water,
where four Canada geese swam straight lines,
transferring from the air their flair for formation
to float in ordered elegance below.
Then suddenly,
flying low over the sharp rise of the moor,
a whole skein descend in sequence
with jet skiing finesse
while we look up in awe as if at a festival
where the Red Arrows are performing a stunt.
I marvel at how close they come,
their undercarriages shining bright white,
as they dip just over our heads
and alight with perfect precision
on their glistening, rippling landing strip.

20 September - Landing strip

19 September – Surprise trekkers

Some weekends when walking up Nidderdale’s gravel tracks,
you see surprising characters out trekking in little packs.
They’re singularly uninhibited and often directly stare,
as if it were you that was a novelty to discover tramping there.
Sometimes they stop to snack on unsuspecting wayside trees,
eating with their mouths wide open despite being in company.
If they do decide to smile at you, it’s a very toothy display
but it brightens up the morning to meet llamas on your way!

18 September – Ghost flowers

Departed but not gone,
ghost flowers linger on,
echoing blooming tall
despite the fade and fall
of colour, petal and seed.
This is an Autumn tragedy,
glory reduced to parody,
as brown stems still stand proud,
bereft of rainbows shining loud,
all their lustre lost to the wind.
But still I remember their names,
see them and greet them the same,
for even when shrivelled and dry,
they proclaim their histories gone by
and promise resurrection return.

18 September - Ghost flowers 1

16 September – Elusive neighbours

If you want to see wild deer
leaping the walls, bounding the fields,
you need to be up when it’s still dark
and chase the seclusion sunrise yields.
You can’t control their sightings,
can’t predict when they might appear,
but early in the morning
is when I’ve always found them here.
Watchful gazes fix on you,
then white bobtails glide their retreat,
caught in magical gladed moments,
disappearing in rustles of leaves.

15 September – True colours

Everywhere around us, with new shades appearing each day,
the trees are gradually revealing their true colours again.
I used to believe Autumn’s turning was all about decay
until I learned the dying green is really being drawn away.
How strange these pigments flaming new were really always here,
covered by chlorophyll’s mastery till they all but disappeared.
It’s only when strength retreats that hidden hues can shine,
weakness revealing burning beauty, fragile but sublime.

15 September - True colours

14 September – Picnic crashers

In my defence, the wind started it –
stealing a piece of popcorn
out of my unsuspecting hand
and hurling it onto the path.
An explosive act
detonating a debris of gulls
as eye after eye sizes up
our bench as the main chance.
A black headed battalion lines up,
swaggering and cawing
like a gang of drunken louts
lowering the tone of the park.
I am led astray,
courting their absurd strutting
by scattering more provocation
to keep them keen and close.
My cackles grow louder than theirs,
and that and the swooping flapping
leads you to plead for mercy
to finish your sandwich in peace.
But I am hooked on hilarity
and continue my mischief
all the way through lunch,
much to the delight of our uninvited guests.

13 September – Chasing rainbows

All is murk, mizzle and gust
but glinting among the drear rain dust,
a perfect arc of colour suspends.
And though it’s a bleary morning,
I feel tinted promise dawning,
long to pass under it into more.
But as I advance it retreats
then swiftly dissolves and depletes,
leaving only dampened desire behind.
Then just as I fear all is rain,
stripes of light re-appear again
just a little way on, up the valley.
I would rather chase rainbows all day
than accept the world as painted grey,
so I walk on to the next arching hope.

12 September – Miracle aviator

It is common to praise the ariel displays
of swallows, kestrels and kites
as they paint the sky in beauty
with their dances, hovers and glides.
But today my sights are lower,
much closer to the ground,
where the weightier wood pigeon
is so often to be found.
Here is a true miracle of fantastic feathered flight
as frantic wings whistle and flap with all their might.
Somehow the pigeon is conquering the air,
even though the odds seem staggeringly unfair.
The din overhead carries hints of impending dread,
it always seems each one might just crash land instead!
The effort it takes just to clear the garden gate
suggests they were designed for a walking fate,
yet with ideas wildly above their station,
they’re trying their best at amateur aviation.
But watch them when they’re distant and high,
using momentum’s speed to fall,
and you’ll realise extreme descent
is their true airborne call.
Seeing them soundlessly ride
the downward current’s flow,
suddenly they look born to fly,
elegant and graceful from far below.

12 September - Miracle aviator

11 September – Saltburn

The schools are back,
leaving beauty spots free
so we drive to the coast
for seaside therapy.
Black sand marbles golden
in abstract, flowing shapes
and the currents within me shift
with the push and pull of the waves.
A sand piper plays for laughs,
scuttling absurd little shows
while I delight to reunite
the beach with my shoe-freed toes.
The gulls cry a perfect soundtrack
as I breathe deep salty bliss,
feeling my inner oceans calm
while sea and shore gently kiss.

10 September – In my hand

In my hand I hold a maybe future tree,
a perhaps full forest of oaken possibility.
All contained in the potential of a tiny acorn,
dappled dreams and towering shade waiting to be born.
This one is alone among thousands of fragmented shards
that the leaping woodland warriors saw fit to discard,
having eaten their fill and scurried on to find more,
reducing rooting prospects on the earthen floor.
I gently drop my green survivor back, and hope it will one day grow
to wave tomorrow’s broad branches over me as I return to walk below.

9 September – Seed magic

In the season of seed it seems right to write a verse
on the five magic ways seeds use to disperse…
the first way they scatter is through gravity’s pull,
the second is through birds and critters eating till full.
The most dramatic way is when they explode by force,
but drifting on the wind also works well of course.
Lastly some use water and it’s transporting flow:
and that, my friend, is the five ways they go.

8 September – Peaking too soon

If I were a goosander
living the river dream,
I would fly to beat the current
then land and drift downstream.
But I’d never be as happy
as in my younger days
when I’d snoozily drifted
safe above the babbling waves,
nestled on my mother’s back
gliding great distance effortlessly,
experiencing the high life
with no work required from me.
I think after that beginning
even flying might seem a chore,
while doing my own swimming
would be a total bore!

6 September – Evening fly-by

Disturbing the peace,
at first they’re heard not seen,
like the dissonant honking
of competing car horns
caught in angry confrontation
somewhere in the next village.
And then they fall quiet overhead,
their swift soaring image
conflicting with their previous sound,
a graceful ticking yes in the sky,
flying in perfect formation
as if unity and close co-ordination
were the only things on their minds.
The perfect team, using the air
and its slip streams to common purpose,
they sweep on in silent, consistent shape.
But once out of sight, synchronised motion
is replaced again by cacophonous commotion,
and I can’t help thinking, despite every analogy,
that the goose at the back is protesting the route.

6 September – Evening fly-by

5 September – Early morning stop out

It’s way too light in the early morning
to expect to find a bat gently snoring,
but sure enough from the edge of the green pot,
one is hanging fast asleep as if it forgot
to follow its colony to more private climes,
where all is shadowed and safe from daylight shine.
We get close enough to marvel at tiny feet holding firm
with so much more weight hanging down under them.
We wonder if our bat will sleep till night’s cover returns
but it wakes, stretches, scratches and quickly learns
that it isn’t quite where it would like to nap all day,
so it takes off during breakfast, and flies fast away.

4 September – Friday foraging

We find a delicious recipe for hedgerow cake,
which we cannot resist trying to make.
So we climb the hills and scour the wayside for brambles,
getting stung, scratched and temporarily entangled
with the bushes that bear the confection we need
to make the wild concoction we long to eat.
And even though my hands are scarred and raw,
tinged with purple that wasn’t there before,
it was worth all the effort and the prickling thorns
to slowly forage for a beautiful black store,
and to enjoy the slowing, calming sensation
of picking the ingredients for a new creation.
We return laden with piles of juicy loot,
mix the sweet batter, then add our fruit,
and when it’s all baked, iced and served
it feels so satisfyingly well deserved…
but shhh, we picked enough to make more
with nothing like the work it took before.
And I suspect I’ll still enjoy the next one immensely,
even without picking one single blackberry!

4 September - Friday foraging

2 September – First Discovery

The first Discovery was crisp and sweet,
a tangy, tasty orchard-plucked treat.
I eye the rest of the pile with tingling tongue,
apple season has only just begun.
Fruit bowl, fridge, cupboard and table
we’ll find as much space as we’re able
to fill with stocks of ripened fare
to feast on, freeze, stew and share.
But for now, even in this first crunch’s savour,
it’s all here distilled – pure September flavour.

1 September – Lighting the fire

I’m still watching for the green to turn,
but warm Autumn colours already burn
in the shimmering flames of the first fire
to cosy the house since last winter.
Outside the blaze hasn’t reached the woods
and there’s no golden glamour to compensate
for the gusting cold and greying skies
that steal sunshine memories as summer dies.
But here inside, all is promise and premonition,
as wild dancing colour draws us in and on
to picture titian trees and hear crunching leaves,
anticipating frosts and firework bursts
by blazing bonfires, holding mulled wine in thick-gloved hands.
So much of the coming season is felt now,
prefigured in this first amber shining,
as we sit in the living room glow and wait
for the world to bronze beyond the grate.