The Summer’s Growing Older

summer's end

The summer’s growing older. There’s a morning chill again.
Every day it wakes in fits and starts, expectorating rain
Like gobs of phlegm, before it musters up its strength and tries to gauge
Its colour scheme – the golden fields anaemic yellow now with age;
As all the pin-sharp hues of yesterday that burst from every bough
Are fading softly into browns and greys, and on its shoulders now
It wears the bleached mists of the autumn’s cloak, and feels arthritis creep
Through shorter days, while, secretly, the season yearns for winter’s sleep.


11 responses to “The Summer’s Growing Older

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