The Last Summer [poem]

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This long last Summer’s brevity
conspires with Sun’s intensity
to make it even brighter still
than all before; therefore, I will,
with passion, burn myself to dust

This August’s ashes scattered all
around my castle’s broken wall
(a brokenness I welcomed long
ago as if it was a song)
is representative of rust

As summertime decays into
a powdered trance of Fall (askew)
I rest my laurels on the lawn
which soon to brown will turn, unborn;
in spite of which: in green I trust

When Autumn wipes its dirty feet
on Summer’s face, I smell deceit.
For all that change to brown and white
is prompted by a tilt from light —
Earth’s sleight of hand, the seasons’ thrust

This long last Summer’s dignified
retreat has gently brushed aside
the vapour trail emitted by
my fading line as questions fly
around my head with wanderlust

The years dissolve as if a dream
and nothing’s as it first may seem.
But all is only mystery
unless love’s wisdom makes us free
to nestle in that place I must

.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2016

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