The soil is dry and compacted
under the last threadbare fall
The laggard stream clogs
between the dropped branches
The cow parsley – and others –
stand as unpicked summer fossils
The weighty berries tease
among sharpened brambles
August should now stutter
into the slow rot of Autumn
But that immigrant heatwave
has not shifted from us
The seasons are so confused
by our greedy interference.
MIKE BELL | 10,000 Poems 