Autumn lake

Late October, when the world

shifts towards winter.

Trees stripped, leaves slimy underfoot

and the lake, jittery with wavelets

slopping and sucking at the bank.

That’s when they come, riding

the cold rivers of air-

Canadas and greylags in their tribes

chattering like children 

as the land unwinds below –

matchbox roofs, glittering windows,

the slow uncoiling roads.

Then a splash of spilt metal

silver in the low sun.

They turn, tipping the wind

from their wings

as the lake leaps upward,

brushing their wide webs

with a silky hiss.