Summer’s days past,

Grey days and rain have


Unobtrusively in.  

The sun,

A ghost of who he once was,


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.