Late September.

When spinney wears a misty shawl.
Where colours blaze before they fall.
The sun performs just one last dance
Amid the trees for lovers' glance.
Sweet scented refuge from Eden born
As memory thumbs through pages torn,
Where Autumn hue and poetry rhymed.
Grandmother made jam,
Grandfather clock chimed.

We ploughed the fields and scattered
Help to the needy hand
On Sunday sang songs out of tune
Thanked God for the fertile land.
Late September I stand under harvest moon.
The equinox has come too soon.
The fire of youth, age quenched with tears
Now candlelight of halcyon years
Once seeds of summer, we are Autumn's ember
Just hold my hand this late September.

by Kevin East

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