Travelling out, great air-raking oaks,
(over ghosting, hawthorn, Tiggywinkle hedgerows)
boles lagged evergreen, ivied up to bough-spread;
some few holding in twig-tips a moiety of gold,
sparse perfection like the notes of a slow-movement -
and returning, blinded by white-gold sun-ball
leaping from tree to tree, dissolving solidity,
the tarmac a melted metal dazzling up;
and the full truth of it all too much to bear
(this driver lost his hunger for the very edge).
A few years back, most days it seemed,
autumn, winter, spring, tested in the crucible.
As I sit to write this, two brown oak leaves
float in my flooded candle-holders, droplet silvered.
..................
We haven't had that many days of blinding early or late sun, so far this autumn. More sun, please.
