RIPE apples hanging high in trees;
Wasps in the windfalls, busy bees.
Sweet chestnuts and hazels too.
Harvest festivals, harvest moon;
Michaelmas will be here quite soon.
Grass glistening in the dew.
Our migrant birds are on the move;
Those shooting pheasants out to prove,
How macho they all are.
Birch and hornbeams turning yellow,
‘Indian Summer’, mild and mellow.
Blackberries in a jar.
Hallowe’en witches, hear their cackle;
Footsteps in the leaf-fall crackle.
Toadstools and chanterelle.
Leaves and bracken, all splashed with gold;
Red Admirals fly, as nights grow cold.
We must tuck up as well.