Summer Castaway

Golden tresses shorn
lay beneath the feet of summers passing,
sun shifts slowly towards warmth
of another horizon,

promising to return,

and we are wrapped for winters blues
beneath compressing sky,
as it drains away all colours.

We were tired as we
lay beneath the feet of summers passing,
too many attempts to fly
left our breath
promising to return.

How lethargic morning seems
as it lingers longer in slumber
beneath compressing sky,
with no thought to lights insistence
that night should be on its way.

Too many attempts to fly
left clouds resting against mountains,
dulling their sharpness
into a soft subtle melody,
while the wolf’s moon
called for the chorus to mourn
golden tresses shorn,

soon frost will bleach all temporary white
and as it drains away all colours,
we reminisce on how we
lay beneath the feet of summers passing,

promising to return.


Beyond Equinox, by Philip Booth