Soft summer breezes, redolent and light,

Of endless afternoons, and dozy dreams,

Now yield to Autumn’s cool extending night,

And daytime sun casts milky, feeble beams.

The garden which delighted in its prime,

Emblazoned thus with blooms in every hue,

Surrenders ineluctably to time,

To sleep and dream of Springtide’s flush anew.

Behold!  the rowan’s fruit of coppery red,

A blessing for the weary feathered throng,

For as the Summer maiden goes to bed,

Cruel Winter brings her dearth before too long.

House martins see the passing year in stars,

And for the balmy tropics soon depart,

Their empty, clinging nests appear as scars,

Encumbrance to my world weary heart.

The boughs which once were verdantly replete,

Now sacrifice their leaves before the wind,

And soon an ochre carpet pads my feet,

Denuding, thus the branches left behind.

So thus we find ourselves on natures arc,

The cusp of seasons tempering our cheer,

Careering forth toward harsh winter dark,

The waning of another hoary year.

As antidote to seasonal despair,

I sally forth with bulbs of daffodil,

And as each meets the earth I say a prayer,

Its golden bloom will find me breathing still.

Oli (18/09/06)