October Afternoon

Louring blue black sky,
foraging crows black against green grass
of fieldsl awaiting the plough’s first kiss.
Ramshackle barn of corrugated tin,
dulled silver and orange rust ,
and further away the red tiled roofs
of Collingwood naval base.
On the far edge of the field silver pylons,
like giants with arms spread in supplication
to strange gods.
And the only sounds are the voices of the wind,
telling the stories it alone knows,
and the whisper rustle of the grass
brushing against my boots.