Autumnal

Swans out of the north,

pushed by wind, sweep in like caped cavalry;

lanced uhlans in flight from a broken field.

A litter of sudden grey stones creep

across the pasture – another drop

of fieldfares late last night.

Smoke columns lean along the moor,

crackles and flying embers at their feet,

attended by bent figures – swaddled keepers.

It is the autumn burning – new shoots

for next year’s grouse – while emperors

and northern eggars roast in silken shrouds.

The glow of berried rowans on the heathered edge,

start memories  like snipe from a bog –

the lips of kissed and long-forgotten girls.

Harry Nicholson