Autumn in the air. Although I refuse to take note
Of the slow decline of late summer sunlight
Into a watery softness,
I have switched the heating on
from time to time
And packed my sunglasses away until next year.
I cannot yet face the sadness of falling leaves,
Rain drops on my dirty windows meandering like tears.
I do not want summer to end
And so I try to imagine that the days are still as warm
As in the last week of July.
Then the slow easing down into deep August.
Then the parks filled with children running wild,
Their mothers picnicking at a safe distance.
Dogs, scampering off their knotted leashes,
Chased by irate owners.
Yet already I am nostalgic for mid winter pastimes,
Tchaikovsky on the CD Player conjuring magic snow,
Books open on the kitchen table, the pages, stained and
thumbed,
Bent back to mark some paragraphs of interest,
Whole sentences underlined with pen or pencil.
I rarely open books in spring or summer.
When the sun is high books are left on shelves,
Their ageing covers fading in the glare.
But September is here now, neither summer nor winter.
A picturesque interlude, a time of waiting, of watching
the apples ripen.
(Smart children sneak into my neighbours garden
To clamber quietly up into the branches).
And so, having closed my books, I sit by the door and listen
To the quiet voices of strangers in the street
Strolling at ease, unhurried while the daylight lasts.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 12th. - 13th. - 14th. - 23rd.- 24th. 2021.
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