Though August’s barely halfway through The copse is clad in autumn’s hue Its summer greens now fading fast And taking on a rusty cast.
Embroidered by the evening sun The trees from threads of gold were spun But in the furnace split and cracken And dieback tips of ash twigs blacken.
Limp limbs hang from peels of bark The heartwood dry and much too dark. Blackthorn sloes - peas - shrivelled slim Won’t stiffen up the Christmas gin.
And conkers spilt from cankered cases Too small for boys to string on laces. Once shiny pebbles dulled by dust The stream bed still, the silt now crust.
Yet though the drouth fires rage infernal A shoot of green, spring hopes eternal.
