Who said summer ends in a storm?
All I see is dry white dust,
High above the Zebra crossings
Where they’re laying down paint. (First coat’s black.)
Vivaldi! I can’t wait to drink too much in Autumn,
When threadbare nuns wrestle laudanum habits.
When the fading air is no longer warm;
And leaves begin to tie the tarbuck, just
So they fall on Puffin crossings
Where council house kids wait. (For a smack.)
It is Time! The newspaper hourglass starts to run.
And as the new month dawns I mumble white rabbits.
And as I look at myself I think of the pawn
I’ve become, my chequered past, and the rust
Of our new bikes on Toucan crossings
Where keyboard bells ring faint. (And spokes clack.)
Oh Magpie! I salute you as you fly towards the sun:
The dying summer sun, where day and night cohabits.
The dying summer sun. With my back against it I sail away.
And even if I don’t see tomorrow, at least I saw today.