. . . leaves borrowing salt-smell from the rim of a wave,
barely puckered with the curse
of autumn’s curled lip, the last croaking
of the hoar-frosted frog.
The oaks deny the graces of old age.
A linden weeps twigs laden with verdigris,
having wanted to shine gold against a gray sky
before she’s stripped and shivering in the dark.
–excerpt from “Greenfall” in The Other Side of Thunder (Flarestack, UK 2006)