Summer’s End; Autumn Prelude

Alisdair L R I Hodgson

What should be a scent on the breeze

is nothing

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.

 

 

 

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