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Last Weeks
Of Summer
The last weeks of summer
Are always sort of crazy,
Rain, sun, wind, clouds,
Blended, stirred, erratic
As if a drunk had stumbled
Upon the weather switches,
Birds busy packing,
Chatting about the old haunts,
What the new ones can expect to
See on the trip down south,
Dead and dying flowers,
Used drones gasping,
Grounded, spinning on one wing,
Elderly women airing quilts
And thick woollen sweaters
On sagging lines, flicking fresh
Bird shit off with wrinkled
Knobby fingers,
A young couple ducking
Into the woods for a last
Summer lay on the cooling,
Crackling forest floor,
The last weeks of summer
Leave you with a hollow,
Painful, twisting longing,
Like a lover leaving for
Another, or one who loves
You, but never really can.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
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