Raked matter blows apart,
And a hot cider voice tells me
That this autumn will be different.
Singing sepia promises,
It lays gamboge patches on my hands
Encoding the big secret,
Like feuille morte spilt in the street,
Marking time on tarmac,
Marking time on me.
Meanwhile,
Varicose saplings climb my calves,
Budding black flowers
Over the big red river,
Destined for the caverns of my heart
And barnhouses of my brain.

When this harvest is done,
I could hope that the November gales carry me aflame
From the chimney to the silence,
Where all truths can be heard.
I could hope to evade
The arc of the scythe,
To see another spring,
If the farmer were careless
In the twilight fields.

Once the yard is in order,
I drift to the gunpowder plot
For Miss Winterbottom’s five-alarm chilli,
To see a scarecrow burn
Amidst loosed catherine wheels,
Rocket smoke
And children signing invisible contracts in magnesium rain,
One day, to bear the same sorrows
Of autumn.

Read a poem about Reality TV.

Check out some of Thom Gunn‘s poetry.