First Frost

Last night an anticyclone
sidled off the sea and squatted
over Europe,
made the sky arch
clear and brittle.

Through hours of darkness
gangs of starry gods
sucked up the dregs
of summer warmth
and scattered silver winter-seed
across the fields, on clod and blade,
until a sluggish sun arose
to claim the day.
 
Now in the early morning light
a wasp clings to the wall
outside my kitchen window
feelers flattened to its head,
wings folded low.

Caught by the gods
it bowed before their bitter breath
to wait for death.
But death was slow,
too slow last night and now
the sun swings lowly round.

The wasp's wings shiver in the growing warmth.
It shakes its head from side to side
as if it can't believe its luck,
preens feelers, flexes joints, then
flick!
it's gone into the autumn air
for one more day of feasting
on the fallen fruit.

Alistair Scott
March 2001