ANNE BOILEAU lives in north Essex. She observes and writes about that county’s ancient landscape, history and wildlife. She’s an active member of Suffolk Poetry Society. Having studied German in Munich she worked as a translator, interpreter and language teacher and enjoys translating German poems into English.
THE DAYS GROW SHORT
The days grow short. Soon the clocks will change.
You always hated that. If you'd been there
you would have understood
the tricks the sun was playing on the boot of my car.
I drove up the narrow lane that peters out at Nunty's Wood,
parking at the point where the pylons change their mind
and turn their faces south. It was cold but the sky was clear and blue.
Conkers were peeping out of their bristly cases.
No dog. I have no dog. So I walked alone past the pond,
through the oak tree tunnel, past the rusting charcoal oven
and the tall metal chair they use to 'manage' the deer.
But when I got back to the car the sun light on the boot
was flowing like a river, shimmering. I wanted to understand
how it was doing that. Or why. The sun was low by now.
I held one hand against the playing light, and saw two shadows,
overlapped. One was dry, the other flowing. And I understood.
The sunlight was refracted off a puddle by the car.
The puddle was not agitated. Even so, the light beam
glancing up from the water to my car seemed to flow
like a stream. If you'd been there you would have understood.
Soon the clocks will change. The days grow short.
Anne Boileau