In the measure of our youths,
of t-shirts grown longer arms
to become sweaters and familiar
friends, draw in the afternoon,
gather the kernels that remain behind.
See rushes along the bank idle
with the linguring pause of a passerby,
we blew dandelions across a river
of a saphired summer,
now to reside in the coat
of this third season friend.
Travel in wisps of brief leaves
and tingle with oranges, vermillions,
the crackle of fire underfoot,
of a descending autumnal blaze;
once again the mushroom earth.
For there are fewer times as intense,
fewer days that are as fair
known between September
to late October, when the colours
come from an unequalled palette;
the cool afterglow of a regowned year
covers this autumn missed.
