Suddenly the sycamore is almost bare.
Below I sweep, the leaves gathered
Into neat crunching piles to be scattered
Above ground. I look up often, at the palm fronds
Waving on the roof, jacaranda leaves
Like veined fingers sunlit green charting
The course of the sun as it lowers and recedes
While raven and noisy miners whizz past
Swooping, trilling. Down in the ivy patch
A creature of sorts has started to excavate.
I listen to my chorister singing from the attic room
Company as I replenish the soil;
Tough it out I cajole my ivy, grown from a tiny cutting
To spread across the fence.
In that bright west sun, how did I miss the baring
Branches, the thin narrow, naked stems and stalks
Revealed, vulnerable, not yet stark or skeletal
The minutiae of the moments
Signalling the beginning of autumn?
Each day changes. I observe and note
But do not see all that is here
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