Poem by Jonty Driver, recently published in The Spectator

FOR THE ONE ONLY

As we walk, she says she hears

waxwing, fieldfare and redwing;

you seldom see them now, she says,

but, if you listen, you can hear them sing.

Above, the clouds accumulate

to what may yet become a storm.

The brambles stretch across the path

to slow us down.

We’re coming closer every day

to where things end, that gulping beast

which swallows everyone

as if we didn’t matter in the least. 

And who’ll go first, you or me?

Me, who worries if you go alone

to town? You, afraid I might indulge

(old fool) in this or that, too much, too soon?

Think of something else, you say, something nice.

The oaks have held their leaves

later than the ash, though colours merge –

and somewhere far away a raptor grieves.

C.J.Driver

 

(Thanks to Jonty for permission to reproduce this)