Red sky at night, observers delight.
This flaming vision does not reflect
but as a late summer sky with
daylight hours waning, autumn
stealthily on the prowl, overtaking
humid, lazy, hazy summer nights;
much too, much too unhappily soon.
Nothing short of dismaying, that
we cannot forbid nature from her
immutable routine, the sun occupying
a different place in the heavens and
we in the northern latitudes have no
choice but to loosen our mind's
grip on our short, elusive summer.
In the garden, flowers still bloom,
fewer in display, wan where they
were once gregariously, ebulliently gay.
The goldfinches and hummingbirds
preparing for their long, diurnal
southward flight leaving a gap of
regret among those who remain.
Shorter days begin to gather into
mournful plenitude, the tired garden
left to rest under a blanket of snow,
our world transformed from brilliant
colour to frigid pellucid skies, churning
winds and bone-cracking icy nights
of tediously prolonged duration.
No comments:
Post a Comment