Autumn’s wind and rain strip away green,
bring an old copper sheen back to oaks.
But November, November, dim November,
you are mostly memory notched by night.
So this morning I wait and watch the gulls
turn long and slow, listless over the harbour.
The shallow angle of sunlight rings low notes
against the water’s belled curve to the horizon.
A flight of cormorants passes, dark and silent,
only the wind from wingtips stirs the surface.