When October comes around
we check our closets
for a change of clothes,
ready at last to dress for looks
after the short sleeved months,
and stop talking about heat
as the first of winter’s hawks
circles a crossroad in the city
to remind us of the open space
beyond it. The immigrants
who spent the summer cutting grass
are sowing lawns
for those who cling to green
as if it were youth. Into the warmth
of cracks in the walls
the tip of summer’s tail
disappears with the geckos.
The forecast is for starlings
swarming across a sky
overflowing with their speckled cries
and the arrival
of refugees from old age and cold
whose love for the city
is measured in mercury.
Clouds pass through the eye
of a needle while we wait
for spring migration
to bring back the White-winged Doves
and when last year’s Cactus Wren
circles the neighbourhood
with his familiar call
we recycle another page
from the calendar. Away it goes,
with all the cans and bottles,
unread newspapers, in the big green truck
on its way to transform
our waste and bring it back
with new contents. Only the summer
comes back without wrappings.
It arrives with no brand name,
no guarantee,
and no policy of returns
when we are dissatisfied.
First it is too dry, then too wet,
then it turns on its heel
and goes south, leaving
thirst in its wake. We contemplate
the seasons, take a long drink of light
and tune in to the news from the poles
already aware we shall hear
that the ice
is thinner this year than last.
David Chorlton
Photo Nick Victor