Summer’s End; Autumn Prelude
Alisdair L R I Hodgson
What should be a scent on the breeze
but a bluebottle on the wing;
a moment of abstract connection
in an otherwise secluded surrounding
with that breeze surrounding me, my skin,
hairs on end, drawing out the bumps
and chasing the dying heat to the hills
as colours begin to change.
Greens have browned in the last of the summer sun
and blue is nowhere to be seen
but perhaps in the bottles and corners of sky,
soon to be rendered grey into white,
whilst the grass stops growing
and all the leaves fall out.
Birds return to the trees, as does the chill,
but the bluebottle is gone.
It may have been eaten by crows that come by,
pecking and creeping, cackling and laughing,
declaring the ending season’s sorrow
and waiting in patience
for summer to finally die.