I run in shadows in the sunken lane
And look above to laden oak leaved boughs
And see the turn from green to orange hue
And feel the sun go down in quickened hours.
On bracken fronds the webs are spun and clear
The wispy threads of clematis hang low
The Spindle with its orange fruits of fire
And leaves are kicked upon the road below.
The hedgerow fruits are laden and so ripe
For Crumbles and for jams for winter store
The apples drop and bruise upon the ground
The lane is dark and the air is raw.
The sun sets brightly low in western sky
The reddish glow sets the world
The dew already heavy on the grass
As I head home ready to retire.