The last Friday

 The last Friday


The last Friday in August, deliciously cool

Men have abandoned summer shorts. 

It’s bright and sunny with a warning shot

Seasons are slowly turning even when we’re not. 


Leaves are dying on branches

On boughs that bend like old Churches

Moss adorns fallen trunks

Shiny holly brightens the way. 


Earthen paths with veins of old roots

Shy blackcurrants just peering out

Still green and red before maturing

In harvest months lying ahead.  


Turning yellow upon the bough

Leaves taking leave and so

Ferns dancing in the circus 

Swaying in a leafy hollow. 


Young mothers wheeling buggies

Seeking sun on the other side

Sheltered from wind by the hill

Running down to a silver sea. 


A time of babes and innocence

The unstudied gift of insouciance 

Days to be hoarded and treasured

But spent freely, without looking back. 

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