Summer’s sun thins to
cloud and mist,
Sky-blue being washed
out to grey,
Faces recently
uplifted
Fade and pale and
turn away.
Autumn colours
quietly arrayed,
Gilded leaves shading
to brown
Until gathering
winter winds,
With cold fingers,
pluck them down.
While she of four
score years and ten,
Who’s the last of all
she knew,
Accepts now her
season has gone,
Feels she’s had more
than her due.
There may still be
sun yet to come,
But even so, days grow
small,
Summer passes to
memory,
Then will slip beyond
recall.
Dave Alton
