Минаващ към есента/Passing to autumn

First light of it in today’s sharpening clarity

along a tilled ridge and hopes getting rarer

for that Indian summer. Renewed migrations

shatter the estuary’s surface tension, rising

through the blaze between dunes and cloud.

Trembling reddening leaves, breeze

plays out its delicate variations, brings

itself to bear on the season’s new species:

a foolhardy abundance in ripening gardens

where pruned trees’ amputations ooze sap.

It is no loss to be here, on the threshold

of a mottled wood, marram’s limit,

deciphering fungal growth’s lace patterns

or spider webs’ promises of future frost.

Time doesn’t stop, but only for a second

first light of it holds a sharpening clarity.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Остров/An Island

Back down through seaside streets,

we’re amongst juddering perspectives

that throw us off the obvious map

of grid systems and Central Place Theory.

Life doesn’t happen so neatly.

Wind whirls itself into patterns

evading logical explanation:

as usual, everything’s up in the air.

Those who came and went before us

have staked their claim in pot plants

and architecture. In the sky

our freedom shrieks like a bird.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Люляци/Lilacs

In the shade of the mountains,

a glass of rakiya, just off the cusp

of the main road heading up

towards tourist attractions.

He was sure about his plants.

We were growing hazy

amongst herbs and ferns,

but he could still steer his way

through greenery labels

and the overhanging branches.

The former primary school teacher

poured what he’d distilled

and there was no question:

the lilacs bloomed and we drank.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Начини през гората/Ways through the forest

За Сара/For Sarra

More than anything, a retinal memory

of untailored woodland beside the train.

1989. September. Two months before

dissident sledgehammers undivided Europe.

Distracted by an Indian summer’s drought,

we took photos of dried-up riverbeds

on the tributary between Chinon and Saumur.

Not long married but with commitments made,

this was to be our new and adult world.

1989. September. And those crackling shots

weren't fired in anger, as it turned out,

but by a business party hunting duck

from dinghies moored along the other bank:

they looked to be set on taking the lot.

1989. September. We were on the move,

keeping to hostels and campsites on the Loire.

Without a map, we knew where we’d been:

municipal places, neighbourhood stores,

those unlikely, welcoming foyers.

Paths splayed out from the edge of the forest

into the untailored woodland beside the train.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips