After the winding cadence of the road,

we climb the five-bar gate,

printing each stave

with a semiquaver of leaf-mould

and loose grit

from the shattered tarmac.

A pheasant in the field

shrills in alarm

at our approach,

its colours like sunrise

against a canopy

of evening-shaded trees;

skeletons in the closet

of a summer behind us now -

under an unbreakable lock,

turning from a major

to a minor key.