Amelia Fielden

 
 

One Season in Ube
 

over Ube
            a grubby evening sky
            with fingernail moon:
            unpoetic autumn
            yet such contentment

 

this warm autumn
            the flowers are confused
            I'm told
            as my camera admires
            their indiscreet blooming

 

first persimmon
            of Japanese autumn,
            discarded skin
            luminous as lacquer--
            no, I regret nothing

 

no customers
            so the cook is knitting
            something in grey―
            "fresh mackerel today,"
            she offers, then lights the gas

 

my hopes spiral
            down with the scarlet leaves
            drifting drifting
            through canal waters
            back to the ocean

 

winter gloom―
            overseas research
            soon to end
            but   how bright the pink
            of sasanquas in bloom

 

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