Birds gather for the marathon:
intrepid Hyperboreans,
they take their bearings, forming
into phalanx, skein and echelon.
Earth's cheek is cold, the summer
has grown old, and stayed too long.
Autumn targets certain trees
that quiver as it rusts their leaves;
cats sense the change of season
in the timbre of the morning breeze.
As foliage jaundices and thins,
fur prepares its soft defence,
becomes luxuriant and dense
in readiness for frost's keen edge.
A golden boat, bowed like a wish
to hook celestial lunar fish,
points its prow towards the west
where rose suffuses mountain crests.
Earth shrugs a shoulder, snubs the sun;
summer packs up and moves on.
Where has the summer gone?
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105031500790
Свидетельство о публикации №105031500790
Рецензии