Above Llanfairfechan

October, middle of, a slight chill in the air,
I’m sitting in the garden listening to a dog yelp
on the far hill, the year gathering its short clothes
for today’s last hurrah.  Tomorrow, I hear,
in the butcher’s, the plastic-free shop, on the street
it will turn cold, and doom lies heavy upon us,
so I let the sun play on me soft fireside warmth,
watch the last breeze of summer drag its heels
through the oak leaves, the Menai slowly empty
and in its way, were this all it would be perfect
but for the ins, the outs, of a left-behind wasp
wondering—here
here
no, there.

Published in PN Review, Volume 48, No.6, 2022