THE LAST DAYS OF SUMMER.

There’s smoke in the air;
In the rays of late August sunlight sliced
By a street corner’s house;
In the mist that crowds the early morning
Sounds of mice and men;
In the shimmer at the end of the lane
That earlier in the year would have been a heat haze;
In the shadows and shade where the daze
Is made even greater;
In-between the leaves that soon
Will loose their greenery
And the far distant scenery
That glistens.

There’s smoke in the nose;
From a fire now tired of re-igniting
The fuel of burnt offerings;
From a coffin of moss that a fool
In his kingdom’s garden just had to incinerate early;
From the remains of a late
Barbecue that didn’t know when to end;
From the ruins of a chimney
That still stains the neighbourhood with coal dust;
From a building that killed
All its occupants in their sleep
And yet simmers to keep
Us uncomfortable.