Wintering

White-gold Sundown

Now the maple's thinning fast,
no longer bar to vision but
a palmate pattern to a white-gold sky,

each back-lit leaf waves
its deep sun jonquil to the sinking Aten -

sunlight aloft
on upper-storey bricks,
in brittle elder sticks,
reflections of day's last delight.

A subtle edge of airy chill,
this breathe-easy breeze
I tolerate in shirtsleeves while I write.

With curious, discoid antennae,
as if a teensy extra pair of wings
sprouted from diddy-head,
a minute fly
sits on the air-dried ink of 'tolerate',
signing, a thumb away,
that peace is always possible -

and off the little guy goes,
straight up, a leap past hat-brim.

A wind that rocks the trees descends
to ruffle hedge and test the stubborn tethers
of a few, broad apple leaves,
swaying the tall-grass stand -

fawn curls, frou-frou wrapping,
so many well-presented presents stacked
I see in them a whole year gifted
at a glance.