I bless you for your late endeavour.
You started out believing you’re
the crown of Summer;
but, however much you try,
your destiny provides
the entry to the scent of Autumn.
I salute you for your decadent fullness.
You pick up the baton
from blazing July;
but, whichever path you take,
your questionful tendrils
wisely wake the roots of Autumn.
I loved you for your self-indulgent glow.
You thrust your wanton cheeks
in September’s face;
but, whatever smile you make,
it will not halt this death —
this sighed-out nature breath of Autumn.
© Alan Morrison, 2013