Summer’s End

A sonnet written on a grey day at the end of the summer holidays

Photo by Jeremy Morris on Unsplash

There’s a dry, dusty pause at summer’s end
before the mellow light of autumn comes,
stings and prickles bite at frayed nerves’ ends
in gardens all unraveled, overrun.
A hollow wind sweeps over empty fields
beneath a lid of flat, featureless grey;
blackish hedgerows exude a ghostly feel
here at the browning edges of decay.
There’s no time now to start things new or fresh
as crows peck the bones of the shorn wheat field;
summer’s energy all done, dusted, spent,
uncertain winter looming, fate unsealed.

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There aren’t many things in the world still true
or which make sense, but one of them is you.

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