Equinoctial winds fill September’s sails:
she creaks, complains, strains
ropes that must be loosed, and slips
We run along the foreshore desperate to
keep her in sight, but the
horizon demands her and
suddenly she’s gone,
just as the first ember sail of Autumn
pierces the dusk.
Her berth is ready, roofs repaired,
windows fastened: for fleet following her are
the Black Ships of Winter,
one by one.