Autumn comes to her garden

 

August brings sweet ends
and death,
the ache to seed
invades the sap.
The melancholy harvest days
tempered by fecund displays.

Earth nears the wonder
of completion,
As if the Gods
ordained this date
as their rest and Sabbath day.

The sun sinks slowly
into clouds
of burning gold and indigo,
Back light to
the flitting moths
And busyness of bumble bees.
A harvest
of summers sweetness
on tongues
of waspish whispered breath.

On the lake water Lilies
dance,
I am entranced
A girl,
an autumn burnished reed,
Auburn hair
and skin as wan as winter ice,

Face unpainted
faintest trace
of colour
in the palest cheeks.
Gown of green,
eyes a lovers sigh.
She sing sweet songs
of things that die.

And then I think
I have not seen
the world as glowing bright
as it is tonight.

-Dave Kavanagh

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