The Thinking Poet


Autumn Afternoon

Mid November sun seeps through birch leaves;
They glow like pumpkin-lamps at Hallowe’en.
Flies dance up and down in milky light,
Suspended by elastic threads, unseen.
Residual frost silvers still the lawn;
A million crystal droplets now are born.

A fly, green bodied, with iridescent wings,
Enters by the window, and is trapped.
A web, even filmier than these wings,
Has grasped and held its victim neatly wrapped.
Finger and thumb close clumsily
To extricate the fly lest it should die.
It flutters to the window and is gone.

Turning to the spider, I address her;
   “In order that this fair one should not suffer
    I rob you of your rightful insect supper;
    You may not think it fair,
    But justice is a give and take affair”.

The sun is sinking behind the oak.
Fingers of diagonal light
Spread golden carpeting over grass.
Flies have ceased their ritual dance at last.
The summer-house grows chill.
Clear sky; full-moon and frost tonight.

I close the window, stack my books,
Then stand and catch the sun with startled eyes;
Molten it looks, tree-high.

I shut the door and walk towards the house,
Marveling at the purity of sky.

Ron Cretchley