Summer’s days past,
Grey days and rain have
Crept
Unobtrusively in.
The sun,
A ghost of who he once was,
Retreats,
And gathers close his warmth,
No longer nourishing
The green tomatoes yet
Clinging to the vine.
These grey days inspire
The burning of clove oil,
The need for dough beneath
My knuckles,
The simmering stew made
From a recipe
Three generations old.
Brilliant ambers, saffrons
And cinnamons
Adorn my lawn in leaves,
Replacing the fertile greens,
Now sunken and dried.
I can spend hours here
At the window,
Alder fire crackling beside me,
Honeyed tea warming
My belly,
Just watching the leaves,
Dancing dervishes,
Down to the ground.