TESTAMENT

The glory of the autumn garden now

is in its apple tree’s yellowing leaves

and knobby fruit, a reddening green;

cocksfoot that infiltrates lawn edges

with its scandal of small bright seeds;

orange bryony berries hiding

behind herbaceous snobs,

fronds shrivelled brown;

a Japanese acer blushing to its roots.

In rare sunlight a spectral aureole throbs,

and a breeze smelling of old lavender

nudges tired wasps.

Outside the garden we can search

for honour on a battlefield

to keep our radiance burning

like surplus oilfield gases

on monuments we’ll never see

and in the eyes of friends.

Or there’s the glamour of the arts,

the tormented light of literature,

a lover’s sudden splendour as birds wake,

posterity’s trap.

All this is nothing, though beside,

the glory of the autumn garden now.