September Squalls

September squalls punctuate the day.

Puddles return to the lane and the stream resumes its gentle chatter.

The trees, still green, defy the wind and cling on to their fading leaves.

Succulent blades of summer-watered grass are harvested by the snaking tongues of nursing cows.

Ewes sheared, and lambs not, are now hard to tell apart.

The hoglets are gone, the swallows have departed and, nestled in its valley, Sabden will hunker down and prepare for winter.

Common sense says summer's gone yet hope remains that autumn can be kept at arms length;

Tangled hair, after blustery walk, tells a different tale; a warm wind whistling around our ears whilst the sun flits from cloud to cloud, before a rolling grey curtain of rain chases us home.

Darting inside, we win the race, but September squalls will even the score another day.