sept 30

it's damp, this last day of
September, the water's all sodden
the ground;
it's puddling, places,
with the rain of the morning's pour-down

beyond the leafy bouquets
of sundry quiet hues
(quiet but the brilliant bursts
of orange) the sky is all
filled up with sooty tufts
of wool and summer's cotton

the wind, it makes the
leaves all dance, at
its will it bends their branches

and this grey midday, born
of blackest skies, will slip
back into the blackness of night
just like a man going passed-out
without any resistance, without even a fight

and why should it, then?
the cool air's pleasing enough,
playing on the skin