Between The Meres

This is a poem started yesterday, and that I've been working on this morning. I'm not sure whether it's quite finished (but then again, I never am), but I think it's ready to be viewed . . .

Pausing between the meres on his homeward journey
he looks at the yellowing leaves
as if seeing them for the first time.
Somewhere a buzzard is mewing.
Late afternoon in early autumn, with a sharpening breeze
to usher in the shorter days.

Leaning on the gate to recover his breath,
he is startled by a cascade of swallows;
they appear as if from nowhere,
but these are not the skimming, dancing birds of summer.
Now each bird flies with solemn purpose and direction,
for they are heading south, they are heading home.

He notes their passing, shakes his head.
So, where am I headed, he wonders, what refuge for me?
He has seen too many autumns;
each time it seems harder to take,
the yellowing of the leaves and the flying of the birds,
the closing down of things.

Suddenly, close by, a robin begins to sing,
her notes falling through a minor key
like ice crystals gently forming in the air. He looks up:
the sky is certainly clear enough for frost,
but maybe not quite yet, there’ll be
a week or two more of hanging on, he thinks.
He kicks his boots against the gatepost
to clear the mud of the mere bank from their treads.
And as he sets off up the lane, a single swallow
flips and curves back across the hedge; this one at least
seems happy to stay a day or two more.

So, we’re not done quite yet, he decides.
He whistles a tune to match the robin, makes for home.
Sunshine filters soft and low through the alders, while
ahead a rising plume of smoke speaks of
welcome hearth and comfy chair.
No need for now to reflect too deeply on
the yellowing of leaves, the ice in the air,
and the shortening of days and of breath.