How shall I know September
will it be when the roses stop their showing.
Today, as I watched the leaves tumbling
from the trees
what at first glance, seemed
like natures timing
suddenly began to take hold –
forcing sincerely, into a cold hard malign.
From muddy work boot brown
to ink pot reds –
collapsed spent exhausted, dead upon the
garden floor, the markings
of a seasons time
begins to mellow, towards their retiring end.
When my days fall, into deep recession
allowing life’s negatives to blur my edges
torn capillaries, ripped exhibited
upon my easel of mistrust –
Who will frame my words
when the writing is on the wall?
Who will build me, my boat –
when my rainfall fails to desist…?
Who if anyone – will?
Poppy March 2014 ~xx~