Forgotten are
The spring’s tender vicissitudes.
This summer’s gift was
An intoxication
Of colour and scent,
Overwhelming
With the richness
Of the bounty on offer.
You can only give
What a man is willing to take!
But this summer’s glory
Seemed like
The heartbreak of life
You had known
From childhood.
In the morning an early mist
Had cleared,
So as not to obscure
The view beyond,
And the sky was
Brightening to a soft clear blue.
You should repeat
Your nightly prayers
Rooted in gratitude!
And now and then
Look forward to the year’s decline
Into his multicoloured
Decrepitude.
Xeowyn