The harvest moon
shines for itself
and the corn
we no longer
reap or sow,
We cultivate
the blue screens.
24/09/2018
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With a turn towards the autumnal, the sense of harvest comes into the air. This poem from 2018 echoes ideas about work in the modern age in contrast with a more agrarian past that are explored in greater fiery depth in an earlier poem, Listen to me, you golden beauty. Do read it. It’s one of my favourites.
As the temperatures drop and the light changes, autumn is a natural time for a poet to reflect. Autumn’s ripened harvest store describes a city changing with the season, now anecdotal as we find ourselves in the changed times of 2020.
After spending an autumn in Poland, I have come to love the colours and textures of a proper Northern autumn. Walking through the local woods and green spaces in London, witness to the oranged leaves and trees collared with fungi, I have been reminded again of this season’s visual gifts.
Autumn first makes itself known to me through the earth. My feet feel the change in temperature, which this year happened in September. Yet, the air and sun rebelled and we still enjoyed a warm spell. Now the change suggests to be more permanent. I have pulled out my thicker socks, even the full woolen ones. I know it is autumn when sock-layering begins. The thicker pair with pink and white harlequin squares, alternating with the partner pair of pink and white stripes, is worn over the standard, daily black sock.
When real winter hits, I will be wearing two under-pairs of the daily sock.
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This poem is from Jangle between Jangle, a collection of verse written while jangling to-and-fro across London during the commute.
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Beaded Quill 