The last flowers of summer

Running this evening, I saw the last flowers of summer.

Big white daisies, heads hanging on tired stalks, petals creased,
huddled in small groups on a field edge,
staring aimlessly at the brown dusk field,
wheat cut and ground ploughed and harrowed,
washed flat by the rain.

Swifts gone, last few swallows gathering flies and strength in small groups
before the long flight to another summer in another land.

Three fieldfares, looping flight in a loose cloud over the darkening fields.
The first, the vanguard, the messengers from the arctic cold.
Harbingers of winter.