End-of-August Arabesque

The sky is like a sapphire flask

The air is like fine wine

The hill, a place where dreamers bask

In August’s mulled sunshine

The purple aster steals our breath

Death dons a stunning veil

In wild-flower enchanted heath

And harvest’s stubble-braille

The garden strikes a tender chord

With gourds and spuds and corn

In melodies zealously stored

To wake some winter’s morn

The earth accepts its musky crown

Where sense of summer blurs

In apple orchards bending down

With autumn overtures

© Janet Martin