24 NOVEMBER 2001, Page 46

Migration

High on my windswept hill I live beneath a flight path.

Each year I thrill to hear the whispering wings and haunting fog-horn cry before I see ship's anchors tossed across the ripples of an ocean sky.

Strong pinions beat and stretch to shift the air and race the striptease act of autumn trees; Their rhythmic music sings of hedgerow berries' juicy yield and hawthorn skies at dusk; first frosts on stubble fields, a search for winter food; flick-knives concealed inside the pockets of a gangster breeze.

Evenings grow dark again and summer's dead — but the wild geese are back and sailing overhead.

Mary Sheepshanks