Sycamore and Ivy

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

 

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

 

 

 

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