365 Poems/28 – September (Rough First Draft)


Lambs in the fields are dirty

and independent now,

coming right up to the fence

and bawling like their mothers,

as trains pass.


I check the breast bone of the goose

after roasting. There’s a blue hue.

Winter will be drawn out and cold this year.


I will grow my hair long,

spend evenings in front of the fire,

surrounded by candles and corn dolly’s,

mulling over games of cat’s cradle,

with friends who have hidden their watches.


September is the month to trace my tattoos

of wolves, to remind myself which one to feed.


I draw things like dandelions on my hands,

while mourning the last of the brambles.

September is about strange and beautiful things.


It is time to go down to the woods,

and watch the light like it is finding its way

for the first time. It is time to breathe

before the frost comes.



Images which inspired this poem.