through a time-worn pupil,
focused on the blue-grey wash,
we paddle in shallows,
waiting for the seasonal tide to turn.
Here there is no stubble, no furrows,
just poetry pure and wild
whirring in and out of hedgerows
thick with hips and haws
and pouring from the sky,
a migrating flock of swallows.
Continue reading: September, looking… – writing in north norfolk