Dig through the piled grey clouds,
and shed gold where lies soot-dark shade,
dig deep where roots tangle and a world squirms,
flinching from the light.
Blow through supple apple boughs
with the gusting breath of a spring gale,
and coax with zephyr fingers
the white, pink-blushed blossom
of the apple trees.
West wind riffles through the leaves
That hide the buttercups along the bank
Ruffles the blackbird’s feathers
And plays with the ripples of his song
Scatters shards of sunlight on the silver water
And murmurs with salt-tangy breath among the reeds
Last day of summer
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.”