The sun is a scythe slicing late September skies,
severing the gilt chain link of sultry summer days.
Smoke spirals slowly above cornfields crackling with gold,
as if the brittle fields are alight
with the cremation of summer's scorched carcass.
Mornings, there is a new sting in the air
as wasps scavenge the rotting guts of redcurrants
in a huddle of blood spot bushes,
and the last windfalls soften, sweetening untamed grass.
Late summer's muggy pulse falters and fades
as arterial light spills from the failing, anaemic sun,
and Michaelmas daisies droop drowsily, jaded and wan,
as September's gilded edges soften,
mellowing into October's mauve.
for 'Summer's End' contest