late

 late

late august

a spider on the handle of autumn

refuses to leave early at 

turning of the midnight rose 

leaves on the flaccid stream

stir toward the weir

elvers have long passed

on the way to their jerusalem

all the gnat bites

over the bloated stream’s weeds

have been scratched 

the flow quickens as the fat trout jumps

over a lazy water vole taking its time

the humped bridge is still warm

to the touch of stone

the shadow quivers under

the fish lie still

upstream long tales walk

the child’s rod and reel

catching a bag-full of memories

just like these

the old man creaks up

pulls closed the patio door

for the flies are have gone mad

the armchair looks on 

sadly

one by one

the flowers are going over

a long cool breath takes its time

for it is indeed

late