A few dry leaves whisper
Over the newly shaved landscape
The busy scurrying of tractors
Has taken its noise to a distant field.
I rejoice in the view they have left
From a wall of green
To a vista of lake and mountains
The breezes flow unfettered now,
Cooling in the heat of drought.
My cat, however, is most put out:
Where are the stalks of cane,
my friends, the prey I love to haunt?
Alas, poor cat, your wit and skill
must sharpen for the kill
Until the phalanx
of green topped canes arise
to rustle once more outside our gate.
Glenda Warburton 