The browns and red and yellows, woolly scarves, brick walls
And rain, gentle and thundering, churn the dark topsoil
The last of the roses droop, petals shining with pearls
The vines that wind round the braided arch whither
Apple trees hung heavy with swollen fruit
And the chill that mists your breath in the morning
The beech with its golden carpet and chocolate roots
Not this year.
The crickets sing of summer in the evening
When the sky still glows orange from the setting sun
A full symphony of bullfrogs still choir, though the midnight bell's been rung
There's still that hum of warmth about the mornings
Still that nostalgic sweetness, the giddiness, the taste of December in the air
As if somehow summer had never come before,
Now returning to us, and it has stayed there
Lulling time into forgetfulness
I sit by the window, listening to the cicada's songs
Half-dreaming half awakened, half filled with sorrow
The cold mug sits forgotten on a nearby chair
The potted plants still budding on the window sill
Remembering a summer never been
Wishing to return to times gone by
At the eve of autumn's satire of a summer's day.
______________________________________________________________________
There are things that never could be.
There are things that never should be.
The things we wish for are both above.
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