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In watered gold the sun is dripping down

Behind the distant line of beech and firs.

The fields are cleared as the autumn frown

Nudges a hint of frost into the air.

The morning's lurid scars of deepening pink,

Lining the threatened rain clouds, have dissolved

Into a wash of flaccid blues which think

They're still in summer, but the lurking cold

Oozes with the evening wind which jars

The estuary flats towards the few

Shuffling head down among the shops and bars

Caught between their memories and a slew

          Of hopes the morrow will bring something better

          Than today, where none escape the debtor.

Brian Hick October 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 23.11.23