Vicki Feaver

We are waking early now –
filled with the urgency
small animals must feel
as they prepare for winter.

I had forgotten how cold
it would be – like coming back
after a summer of wandering
lusts to an old lover.

And how beautiful –
the corners of roofs
floating in a white mist
like pieces of wreckage;

afternoons when the sun
burns through – dries
the wings of dying wasps;
light of an awful clarity.

We must make the most of them
we say – these skies of pale
unclouded blue. (Our lives
move in and out of focus too.)

We tread through blankets
of bright leaves like children
playing games – now warm,
now cold and getting colder.