Dry Stone Wall by Vivien Teasdale

 This may not be quite up to Keat's view of Autumn, but I hope it evokes a positive feeling as we head towards winter and whatever that may bring us. 

“It serves no useful purpose now,” he told them.

“Once it marked a boundary, built in local stone,

the easiest to hand, stretching out across the land,

showing how man divided up his world.

But now, it serves no useful purpose.”

Fallen into disrepair: decayed, dishevelled,

ivy creeping over the coppice stones. And briars,

bowed with luscious fruits bursting in the autumn sun,

or ripped apart by urgent beaks.

Blackbird whistles a warning to the world,

alerting all, freezing the moment.

Scarlet rose hips glisten, polished bags bulging, 

spilling the last pieces onto the dark earth,

and a mouse scurries to snatch the bounty

into the safe haven of the crumbling courses.

The people move on, picking their way over sharp, white stones

fresh laid on the worn-out car park.

They scurry to the tea rooms,

as a wren scolds. A robin sings, drowned out

in the chatter and clatter of distant cups.

On the far side, the sheep snuggle up, sheltering from the coming

storm, safe against the black and weathered stones of the old wall.