Now summer shuts its fist and sleeps again,
And different birds and waking, different songs
Sung; the ashes of this golden hour heap
But embers prickle, like stars not known dead.
This ocean of a season, this firm tide,
Rushing and then breaking in white fractures
Against the rocks of autumn with a sigh
Of triumph, or of wistfulness dawning.
And the bubbling swash of sleepless nights
Rides on the morning, folding like linen.
The final burning sun sinks. As you stay
To while away the remnants, reminisce:
Those ever-tumbling waves on spotless sands -
A blessing, a gift, unsung as eyesight -
And summer slips like honey down the throat,
Tasting sweeter and fonder in hindsight.
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Author:
Ryan Robson-Bluer (
Offline) - Published: August 4th, 2022 12:02
- Comment from author about the poem: How the summer just seems to slip away as a happy memory each year, like a conductor ending a symphony with a triumphant flick of his wrist and closing his fist.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 33
Offline)
Comments2
love it summer feels so good then it leaves us good read
wonderful imagery
although we're still, desperate
for the heatwave to break where I'm from
a rather long and suffocating summer
its been for some..
lol
thanks for sharing
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