Poem for This Week

Summer Passes


It's still summer the August sun pours down,
No breeze to relieve the sizzling heat or cool the scorching stones.
The sea sparkles, alive with sails,
Smug hotel facades rise above the promenade, white and dazzling,
Seagulls swoop and glide on sinewy wings,
Outlined sharply against a blue sky, harsh cries circling the air.
The only clouds are lazy wisps of cirrus.

The beach is crowded, people doze,
Soaking up warmth and sun.
But the sun is lower than a week ago, it sets sooner,
And it's time to draw the blinds,
Regret the long light evenings and think of autumn days to come.

September can be sweet, although it's a time of winding down,
Of waiting for flowers to die, for trees to shed their leaves,
For that first sharp pre-winter chill,
For rain to fall and wash the soiled pebbles,
Clear away the grit and grime,
Filling the air with its sharp wet smell.

The shadow lies ahead,
It won't be long before cold winds wind through deserted streets,
And thoughts of summer are tossed aside.