Not cricket

Overripe plums, mostly red, some grey with mould,

scatter-patterned across the lawn

less than successfully bowled from the branches above.

Although not cold enough

My slightly blurred reflection in the darkness of the double glazing,

the blackness of the frantic trees against the pewter sky,

gloomily presage November.

Waxwing

Yesterday’s window-smacked waxwing,

headless by teatime,

gone by the morning,

bar the grey downy feathers
incongruous in the green grass.