October

Now is the time to find and cut wild wood
and build a fire, the first since spring matured
to emerald summer, daylong sun which could
heat my rooms, so they could be endured.

Now is the time when cold and damp encroach
on me and my cherished house, my life's dream,
which at last will fall to the regime
of wood-louse, the march of wet-rot and of roach.

Now there's just time to let the fire burn.
Branches twist and sing in orange flame,
the surplus of a century of light,
invested slowly, blown in the spree. I turn
to urgent tasks, to finding fuel. The same
chill will need this cure tomorrow night.