Old Fleece

Yes, I’m back at last. We have had a wonderful time touring through France to Spain and back and had some glorious weather most of the time. It didn’t begin to feel autumnal until we were at least half-way back through France. By the time we got back to the coast to make our ferry crossing torrential rain and gale force winds in the Channel caused all ferry sailings to be cancelled. We managed to book on the next one, half a day later, but it wasn’t the best of crossings. We also encountered bad weather for the first part of the journey home on the English side. This soon dried up, but we were then bedevilled with roadworks, road closures and deviations (including a lengthy detour from the M6 round Wolverhampton) as we drove north, finally arriving home in the small hours of the morning last Wednesday. Since then I have been catching up with various necessary jobs, cleaning the motorhome ready for winter lay-up, doing piles of washing and making an attempt at tidying the neglected garden. There is more to be done but it’s a start.

I sweep fallen leaves
wearing an old fleece jacket.
Damp autumnal chill.

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The Breeze

(First draft…)

Cycling along oak tree-lined ways
I lift my face to the breeze
and listen to the song the wind sings
as it brushes through the trees.

Rustling through branches, it sings
of it's journey across the seas 
to reach so far inland, tells tales 
of how it plays with the ocean waves
far away on foreign seas.

I turn my back and the breeze 
plucks my clothes, eagerly pushing past 
on its journey to the next grove of trees 
to sing again its songs for them
of the tales that it weaves.

Trees

Trees
violently waving,
flexing and bending.
Birds swing on branches.
Wind.

Sleep

Keeping me awake
overnight; how the wind howled.
Now I need some sleep.

Freedom

The season turns.
The first russet leaves,
encouraged by the wind,
make a bid for freedom.

Applause

The breeze sings its song
through the trees
while I strain my ears to hear
the tale it tells, that wins,
with a rustle of leaves,
a round of applause.

Bereft

Strong winds have all but stripped
the leaves from the cherry tree.
Like the fledgling pigeon
they have now flown free,
and I am left feeling bereft
like the bare branches of the tree.

Cycling

Cycling along with
wind and sunshine on my face;
clearing cobwebs away.

Late Brood

A pair of wood pigeons
have built their flimsy nest,
for a late brood,
in a crook of the cherry tree.

Do they not know
that soon the leaves will fall,
strong winds will blow?

And then they’ll see
it doesn’t pay to build
a flimsy nest so late
in a crook of the cherry tree.

Rosebay Willowherb

Rosebay Willowherb lines the lane,
the majestic red flower heads
turning to fluffy white beards,
ready to blow on the wind
and spread their seeds
as the year turns.