Poem of the week Autumn

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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.

Don Filliston.