At Needlehole, by Alison Brackenbury

At Needlehole

How lovely the land lies in October,
Still as the moon.
The new wheat is planted.
The drivers are gone
To pile up their wood
Or be soothed by a screen.   The felled tree is sawn,
The robin’ s cross cry
Now liquid and long,
Uncannily high.
The cold finds my fingers.
The moon fills the sky.

poems.one - Alison Brackenbury

Alison Brackenbury