It's territory shared

It’s territory shared

Soaking sun in silence by the pool                                                                                            

late September, no tractors yet,

the grapes this year delayed,

I’m hearing Yeats, bean rows, honey-hives

and golden apples of the sun

in luscious Irish lilt.

And Hopkins too

as brindled, dappled, couple-coloured

moths and butterflies dance  by

or pause for me to name: Painted Lady, Red (not Orange) Underwing.

Now all the air is busy-

Pied Flycatchers fly sudden upward, then just as sudden drop.

Entire family here, extended, surely not one brood

and this, the boundary of our land,

distinctly theirs also.

It’s territory shared.

So all the way from Africa

to ours/ their summer place

no satnav, year on year unerring

their returning, timeless rhythm

poetry.

29th September 2013, Hounoux.