We meet again not like lovers not as it was in that far away spring
in the green shoots time or the summer blushing time when we plucked the purple plums too soon.
We meet again now while honey drenched bees still murmer round the ripened plums and this indian summer heat wraps combine harvested bales of winter bedding
fooling us into false warm dreams of summers gone.
Yet winter waits and rust brown shadows cool the evening and fox cubs prowl, nibbling plump blackberries while rabbits scatter.
We meet again not like we did then
not as we were full summered hot
but now here beside this cold maturing moorland stream,
under a scarlet berried Rowan dipping its branches to the bronzing bracken,
where children play unaware that the ripened Autumn fruit is sweetest.
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