So, Summer starts to end, as birds can tell:
The pinnacle of majesty’s been reached.
When Autumn sounds with its clandestine bell,
the gate between the seasons has been breached.
That’s how it seems with both feet on the earth;
With nose up in the air — scent in full flow.
For such a one knows what each season’s worth
and knows what other noses do not know.
A stranger here I am and pilgrim too.
My nose sniffs out the air (but not for air).
For looking far beyond the Fall’s cool view,
I see an icy vista everywhere.
Within that ice an aeon’s being born.
For now, I’ll wear my cardigan that’s torn.
Perched high on wires, the swallows know the drill.
They’ve perched and flown off many times before.
When weather ill-conducive brings a chill,
it harbours signs of soon-impending war.
In all my chequered life I’ve never heard
the sound of distant drums so clearly played.
Yet most are in denial, undeterred;
their lives a whirlwind lie — a masquerade.
I shudder when I think of what’s to come
(my cardigan is more in shreds each day).
How could so many hearts be cold and numb
and unaware this world’s a cabaret?
One backs out of the cast when one’s reborn,
then starts to wear the cardigan that’s torn.
© Copyright, Alan Morrison, 2021
[The copyright on my works is merely to protect them from any wanton plagiarism which could result in undesirable changes (as has actually happened!). Readers are free to reproduce my work, so long as it is in the same format and with the exact same content and its origin is acknowledged]