The turn of summer's end
already caused  ailing leaf's stems
to tremble and quiver
one last hand, one last trailing touch before a final
release on high wind,
the leaves descend
transcend in their death
back to the earth which gave birth
a bittersweet rejoice
as colours and ribs fade to dust
and return to soil
to feed the tree nutrients for life.

The brittle voice of your footsteps on grass
under heavy winds drag
would have went amiss,
but I listened for this
as assurance
our pace still kept in step
crossing the blanket of green
between the trail
of one conversation's lull
and the delicate start
of the next.

What do we do when the shadow's pressing against our hope
or dragon tails whip our thoughts into a frenzy
when we struggle to walk a straight line
on paths that twist and contort?
How do we ignore the vices and voices
that mock and entice us
or lights that would blind us
from the sight of the righteous?
How do we utter our words to a lover
when doubt trips us to stutter
knowing we should speak better
but the truth is smothered to a mutter
like a snuffed candle's last splutter
or spittle from a kiss interrupted?

As kids we'd play
beneath a summer sun
that turned
the pitch
between slabs of laid concrete
on minor suburban roads
into soft globs
malleable enough
to scoop out and
use as makeshift glue
to adhere icepop sticks
end to end
in triangles and squares.
These we'd toss to one another
in absence of Frisby or paint *** lids.
There were less cars those days
and none complained
to a bedraggled clump of kids
***** ***** but up to innocent clean mischievous play.
Digging up parts of the road we'd all eventually leave by.