November flaps like old grey underclothes.
Ratty grass, blown shrubs. Garden broken
at the arse end of the year.
Packing my life up, kicking off
unwanted passengers. I won't see
another summer here.
No matter: the kids are grown,
the young man who came here gone.
Up the muddy lane rooks circle a bare oak
like vultures round a sky bone.
c. Marc Woodward