Autumn come to early.

Windows, grief stained,
witnesses to the drowning death
of summer sun.

Under grey dishcloth skies
the garden blurs
through shells and shards of shattered sky.
Colours run
in raging rivulets.
Autumn washes pink pansies
back to bloody red and dead white.

Lilies jive, the beat of rain
and gyring gusts,
refrain of drips from leaf filled gutters

Monet’s vision created
through the lens
of summers sad mourning.
Tributaries of heaven
run and blur,
the wash of blue and yellow,
green emerges vibrant, vivid.

Leaps from lawn and leaf
as though days can be prolonged
by too-late displays of youth.

-Dave Kavanagh

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