Rockhollow Series: October Progress

Winter blinks,  
awaking,  
almost
 
strokes long fingers over naked ladies budding,  
coneflowers,  
windflowers,
the like.
Spikes of old artichoke are cut away, leaving fresh growth,
dragged across gold sand paths to compost,
tomatoes too.
One lone dragonfly hovers  
in the periphery,
brown, oversized, slower.
 
I've been clipping
long strands of willow,
over, over again,  
discarding the slats,
pulling away wire binds,
stretching it thin across spaced decking poles
and strapping down  
with otherwise unwanted metal.  
The look is effective,
draws attention to the green,  
hides,
reveals,  
creates wrapping paper around life.
 
I steal a moment,
wander to the pond,
wait
for a lone, late frog,
she regularly dips -
she never comes.  
 
The radio is pushed on,  
humourously playing Blossoms, full belt,
think of dinner, sleep,  
admire my hands -
pricked and gashed from twisting
bands of wire
over, over again.  
There is peace in today,  
I'll start a bonfire, I think,
burn that wasted wood.