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1

The golden fields shimmer beneath the blaze
of the late summer sun in cloudless sky.
Once scarlet poppies faded by the rays
to pale transparency before they die.
autumn
2

Along the lanes spring flowers are withered. Dry
brittle heads scatter seeds like the brown dust
which puffs up from the ground. Other seeds fly;
parachutes rising with the hot air's thrust.

3

In the still afternoon the cattle graze;
their youngsters nearly grown, their work is done.
The only movement in the humid haze;
butterflies seeking mates beneath the sun.

4

Meadows and pastures of their grasses shorn;
turned to stubble, yellow from lack of rain.
Yet now at Lammas, fields are thick with corn;
with barley, oats and wheat and every grain.
5

Soon to be harvested, cut down and milled
to flour; transformed to make life-giving bread.
So the offspring of Mother Earth is killed;
a sacrifice that others may be fed.
6

A time to work is coming; time to store
the gathered crops; to reap what has been sown.
Yet time enough to pause, be thankful for
the first of the year's harvests fully grown.

7

Half-opened hazelnuts and elder fruits
still green; signs of a harvest yet to come.
Immature cabbages, potato roots,
the flowering peas and beans, the swelling plum.

8

A little sadness as summer recedes.
Yet there is ample beauty still around.
And in the nuts and berries, fruits and seeds
   the core of next years harvest can be found.  

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