A Day of Crystal Blue

A day of crystal blue 

and thin, fragile 

morning light, 

a single star hangs 

in the heavens, 

the last watcher 

of a passing night.

For the wind,

is soft and gentle 

passing through 

the brittle hands 

of leaves, 

their trees bending, 

moaning softly 

in the memory 

laden breeze.

For August 

her lanes and fields, 

empty of summer, 

are passing ever 

so quickly now, 

as shadows steepen, 

changing skies 

hint and beckon

at the coming tithe

of autumn’s grey

and the keening steel

of September’s plough

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