Clockwise
 
When we had saints, and saints had days,
this was St. Bart’s.
High-pitched hay went slowly home
on groaning carts.
 
It is a sweet spot
in the calendar:
out of summer’s pockets,
winter’s provender.
 
Cormorants – or is it shags –
finial the rocks.
In the meadows, grasshoppers
are knitting socks.


David Callin

If you have any thoughts about this poem, David Callin  would be pleased to hear them