When they go back lunchtime’s too late.
In Summer’s wake, papier-mâché barbecues
rust beneath shed leaves, woven, breeze-whipped, between bars where trout,
caught in their haste to escape their mates,
baked then flaked, lightly, on late greens.
When they go back, night comes too soon.
Hold Autumn back. Soften the wind’s hard edge, call it ‘Saharan blown, warmed with late lingering gold, laced through an ochre breeze’.
When they go back turn outside in. Wait. Contemplate what to plant when it’s Spring.