Epitaph for summer

These leaves, they are no friends of ours, these withered intuitions of a winter yet unmade. They are no dauntless proxy of the season’s good-willed poem, proposing rusted words and sentences whose stressed patina passes for a flame in colder days and ill-afforded shades of falling auburn. This autumn, it is overwrought, this harvest but the culling of too many summer days and understandings, and it’s thunder now that burns the trees and shadows of the painted leaves that paper streets in lovely epitaphs of days I’d rather be.

#Melbourne #Australia


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