On the Allotment in Late September

Peaceful, bar a scattering of chattering birds,
I stand with summer at my back, penknife in hand
To slice the slack knots of twine neatly tied in spring,
Dropping curls of string onto leaves of yellow-green.
The unwieldy wheelbarrow awaits the remains
As I strip runner beans back to a bamboo bone.
Time unknown, so contentedly spent, my head bent
In concentration.  And yet, the spare autumn air
Nurses wisps of wistfulness: a season passing.
But here on the sun-bleached bench lie pods like knuckles,
Knobbly, and fat with beans mottled purple and black.
The promise of life curled inside each sturdy seed
Reminds me that nature’s cycle turns silently
As the jackdaws caw in quarrelsome harmony.