HELEN B Cruickshank catches the late season of the year, and of a life, in these deceptively simple lines, written in English, though she was equally at home in Scots.

Her Collected Poems were published by Reprographia in 1971.

WOMAN IN AUTUMN

Late bees trouble

The last of the clover,

Bare is the stubble,

Harvest is over.

Under my feet

The wild mint's breath is

Poignant, sweet,

As summer's death is.

Now by the park

For a moment linger,

Lips fruit dark,

And bramble-torn finger.

Ploughs are started,

Seagulls follow,

Where once darted

The dark-blue swallow.

The sharp blade tears

The stubborn field.

What will next year's

Harvest yield?