Tuesday, September 22, 2015


As September rushes to close
Every seasonal flower submits
Weakens like crumbling parchment
Its colours fade like failing skin
In emaciated queues they rustle
Upon long, desiccating breezes
All sweet essence finally spent
Till the last petals fall like stars
To smoulder upon the eager earth
The sepulchre of a summer grace
And no colour is rekindled anew
For all shall now blacken and grey
Till the days are made again
If we can but linger till spring