Amelia Fielden


            One Season in Ube

over Ube
            a grubby evening sky
            with fingernail moon:
            unpoetic autumn
            yet such contentment


this warm autumn
            the flowers are confused
            I'm told
            as my camera admires
            their indiscreet blooming


first persimmon
            of Japanese autumn,
            discarded skin
            luminous as lacquer--
            no, I regret nothing


no customers
            so the cook is knitting
            something in grey―
            "fresh mackerel today,"
            she offers, then lights the gas


my hopes spiral
            down with the scarlet leaves
            drifting drifting
            through canal waters
            back to the ocean


winter gloom―
            overseas research
            soon to end
            but   how bright the pink
            of sasanquas in bloom


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