Fin de saison

I stagger round, beating the horseflies off, splitting the sun with sparse shadows, turning taps to and frow, timing the drips, pushing water uphill, aghast at the size of zucchini, the sweetness of melons, the dark violence of melanzane, the explosion of Calabrian chili peppers, the ravages of fox and mice on sweet corn and unripened grapes, the insistent possessiveness of the Sombre Tits on the sunflowers, ants everywhere using the hose as a highway, the great cricket concert filling the moon filled night, newts leaping half formed from the watering can, the endless heat, the promise of rain that never comes, lizards and snake, owl and jay, the yaffle yaffling over all and nuthatches saying you’ll be sorry when it’s over, when the cold is in the clover and winters coming in.