England is having the usual crazy springtime: three lovely warm days last week, but today snow is swirling in the bitterly cold wind. Here is a poem for late autumn. Tomorrow we'll move into day 4.

MUSHROOMS!

There is a time for mushrooms! Among the fallen leaves,
When autumn gloom laments the harvest’s end;
The orchards have been emptied; gathered, the golden sheaves;
The dripping darkness has no more to spend,

No wealth to offer, just the vanishing gold
Of autumn squelch. All’s finished. All is wrecked.
Birds sing a hopeless note. Among the old
Dark conifers, what life can we expect . . . ?

Nature again in triumph! Children’s joy!
An enigmatic flourish, who knows where?
Sprouting up unexpected: kill or enjoy:
Sweet pixy houses, or the toad’s death chair.

Riches another gathered: tree or shrub:
Leaves, dead, that processed light from the distant sun;
Patient complexity, to synthesise from rub-
Bish; quintessent chemistry. The year is run!

Underground re-processing: optimize nature’s kindness:
Death, or strong medicine, out of the gloom,
Re-cycling scraps of fallen goodness.
There is a time for mushrooms! Leave them room.