I wait for the clocks to go back
as the fallen plane leaves are bagged.
Violet blanched out of them, here are
the last perennial asters,
their petals splayed like otters’ feet.
The distant ting of a bike bell.
At Half-Mile Tree the crosswinds
fetch away a cox’s order
and a water vole’s scarpering.
Burdock done for another year.
I wait for tapering fingers
to tangle forever with mine.
Then a coot’s brief, jocular dive:
time to look and little besides.