Walking with contented weariness
On this waning day of a dying month,
The old magic returns.
For this is how I remember September;
A suggestion of summer,
But cool with it;
And long shadows cast after noon;
Black eyed berries,
And well munched mushrooms left by sated slugs;
A solemn stillness over fresh ploughed fields,
Like an empty church after service;
A solitary rose
Like a guest arrived too late,
Unsure of her welcome,
Pondering her fate.
Time in limbo;
Last reprieve of leaf;
A last legging up and down the lawn to be shorn;
A mellowing and yellowing;
An aging, tiring sun
Misting mornings till eleven,
Prompting curtain-time by seven;
And an odd sense of panic
That the squirrel surely feels,
To store things away,
Tidy up, make things snug,
And generally prepare for worst-of-year,
In this our final fling
Until resurgent spring.
Ron Cretchley 28.9.94
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