The Sadness to September

The leaves growing old, drying like skin;

apples on the crab-tree red as tomatoes;

along the hillside, swathes of bronzed bracken;

a plait of smoke rising from a neighbour’s chimney.

The year on the turn: two days ago, swallows on wires,

on their starting blocks; they’re gone now.

There’s a sadness to September: a cool edge to its heat,

an extra length to its shadows, a ripeness

that is the beginning of the year’s rotting.