Life's gone underground.
Absence of butterfly and bee.
On the pond — brimful of rain —
whirligig beetles ever decrease
in ever-decreasing circles.
One last water lily
fails to open
yet refuses to die.
Earthworm casts
stipple the lawn
like cairns —
portals into a nether world.
Fungi are alien invaders.
Toadstool parasols wave
in the woody air.
Trees shrug and shiver off
their leaves, paring back
to the bare bones of things.
Each brittle leaf
drifts down, goes limp.
The plum tree's bark —
ploughed and ridged
as a strip lynchet.
Leaf litter
rustles with blackbirds —
every bill a golden promise —
and a slanting sun
slices a blue
parabola of sky.
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