on morning’s ebb tide
i contemplate summers end
Autumn’s southerlies arrive –
Snapping towels on clotheslines, and
Sneaking under doors.
‘An ill wind’ some will say.
For me it’s a herald.
Reminding me of the the things
The winter season brings –
The season of no lawn mowing,
Porridge for breakfast,
Shorter days and longer, cosy nights.
Making fog when we speak and laugh,
As we walk rugged in scarves and jackets.
The sound of dry and fallen leaves
Rattled against my bedroom window,
As a promising wind gusts.
The weight of the kite,
As it struggles for freedom –
In winters’ brilliance.
Carving a virgin wave through frigid,
salt flavoured air –
On a rare winter swell.
Frozen puddles, and
Red roses –
No sign of illness I say.
The new moon slips its smiling face
Above the morning camisole of mist
And shines a gentle beam
Across my lovers breast.
An early breeze stirs fading shadows,
As night is chased further into the dawn
By the golden promise of an autumn sun,
And reveals the soft curve of lips –
“Stop staring at me” she smiles…
But I never will.