Summer’s ending

Summer_day-Carl_Aagaard

In these end of summer days
The noonday sun is just as fierce
And burns the evening sky with August’s ardent flames.
The sky’s a sheet of burnished blue
And leaves hang limp and weary as the twilight falls.
But the mornings of these end of summer days
Are brisk with breezes from the cooling sea
And dew hangs cold and heavy on the grass
Where long shadows linger waiting for the sun.
The blackbird has no more heart to sing
Mindful of the dearth and coming cold
And fruit falls to the leaf-strewn ground
To rot into the mould of fallen blooms.
A sadness settles on my heart
Like shadows falling on a mountain side
At so much fading from the world
That was so vibrant only days before.
But you cup my face and set your eyes in mine
I feel the warmth that comes from your familiar hands
And in those eyes as green as any mountain side
I see reflected our shared summers past
All their sweetness stored like ripened fruit
To be savoured when our days are short and dark.

Stillness at the turning of the year

Paál_László_-_1871(körül)_-_Vihar_után_(Beileni_táj)

 

End of summer hush

Falls on the morning garden

Where the ground is damp with night rain.

Clouds sailor-roll in the turbulent sky,

Billows of pent up heat that August never shared.

Even the fussing of the blackbirds

Mutes to a sad soft sigh

For the soft times of summer are over

And the fat silly chicks have left the nest

Blundering their way in the world

Beneath the watchful eye of the cats

And mocked by the cold breath of the north wind

Gathering in the snowy wastes of winter.

Last day of summer

Last day of summer

I walk

far

to the quiet wild places

where even the fly tippers don’t go

to breathe in the last of the summer air

to watch the crimson vines climbing through the tired green

and clouds ripple in white shoals

across the vast ocean of the sky.

To listen to the songbirds sing one last song

before they gather up the glowing embers of summer fire

to warm them on their journey south

through the cold high air.

West wind gusts warm through turning leaves

that tremble and cling unaware their day is done

and whispers in autumn’s hesitant voice

a warning from the icefields of the north

“Après moi, le déluge.”

 

Pieter_Bruegel_the_Elder-_Storm_at_Sea_-_detail