Unpicked courgettes swell to a squamos ooze;
Spent vines cling to the outer edge of the cosmos
Bed, desperate to maintain a grip on summer.

By late September summer’s doings come undone.
A drift of falling leaves quickens the wood
And night tightens its grip on each  rising sun.

For a day or two everything hangs in the balance:
A gold paper-rose establishes equal measure
To emptied-out beds and a pumpkin’s bright face,

While tangible darkness of damnation arrives
With the first grass frost, heightening track and tang of visiting fox:
And unseen, the hound of winter on its scent.

J.K. 22nd September 2016 ©
Paper Rose

A 1st Prize for the second year in a row… With a big big nod to my partner in grime Janette @janpaulkelly


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