In September...

Sometimes the last stanza or even the last line of a poem
takes longer than all of the verses preceding.
Such was the case this morning, then my sister posted a photo on Facebook
that inspired the Finishing Touch
This photo is used by permission and courtesy of Lucy Martin
Her back yard...

This poem is about September literally and metaphorically.

Is the decade of the 50's the one where we most grapple with the

slap grace of getting older??

or does it get worse better from then on? 

All by God's grace right? in thankful faith we go!!

 

It seeps into our skin with fading cricket hymns where sun-kissed sighs
Ripple purple alfalfa fields dappled with yellow butterflies
It rushes through shadow-blue dells and fells stippled with petal-stars
It sweetens our gaze with hazel sweeps and heaven’s cloud-heaped bars

In September we sense the embers of summer begin to glow
It broods in woods poised on the brink of gorgeous green’s undoing, oh
As tree-tops flare and impress stares captured by nature’s scarlet sash
Before the hill is flecked, then decked with summer’s bronze and russet ash

It teases us with breezes seasoned with Reason’s conflicting tides
Where holding on and letting go duels as joy and grief collides
Because the Beauty of What Was fills parting with bittersweet pangs
As we both mourn and celebrate love’s dusky Musts and musky twangs

It plays an instrument; heartstrings, and enthralls both the old and young
The orchard bent with bounty authors lyrics of a universal tongue
Where far and wide the countryside is at the mercy of a brush
That stirs a blur of thistle-seed and washes slopes with coral flush

It blends aromas, spicy, pungent, fuses flavours malt and lime
Somehow, now dawn feels like a cruet pouring ballads steeped in Time
It threads the gossamer of webs with liquid diamonds none can steal
And heals the wounds of ‘having held’ with wonderment’s relentless zeal

In September we reconcile the oceans cupped in shores of skin
Take of our shoes and wade through waters near and dearly gathered in
Where gardens laugh and weep as we collect a treasure-surge of loot
While we revel in the disheveled happiness of blooms and fruit

In September, life feels like a harbour where memories are moored
Or like an arbour traced with tendrils to the Mast of Past secured
In September we remember once again, summer’s hurried stride
Dropping notes to a love-song, like rose-petals strewn before a bride

© Janet Martin