Do not mourn August
Brown September is
The better month
Moving in with its
Neatly packed elegance
Washing the windows
Upon arrival and planting
Perennials over fickle blooms
The house feels now
Like a haven
Rooted at the heart
Of a downpour
A cleanse so complete
It gives Summer dust
A run for its gold
Shameless Summer
Who torched the place
Who played music too loud
Well past two a.m.
Goodbye to you and your
Feet full of sand
Clambering into bed
Without even a shower
Your ***** walls, your
Furious scribbling, your
Fleeting romance
I will paint over it
And turn it all into
A bright white canvas
Another chance at
Another chance
This year I will keep
My notebooks sorted
I will stretch profusely
And take out the trash
Of procrastination
I will mail those letters
And goodbyes
I will have my cry
With a side order of joy
Twirling in my dress
That is too nice to wear
I will stay hydrated
Going outside now
I will drink the rain

Neatly the night
Has folded her robe
And walks in naked
Startling the paint
And the wood
In the window that creaks
Looking surprised to see me
She blushes
A crimson hue
Or appears to
A ruby-cheeked slumber
That lightly falls
On the skin of the room
Turning the pallor of walls
To the colour
Of a low-key melody
Spun round and round
On the surface
Of a record
Shiny black home
To the saxophone
The wild guitar
The sweetest
Up-tempo piano
My soul ever did hear
Spiralling upwards
Serpentine
Serpentine
The night is the smoke
That I dance with
The scale
The four-by-four
Slowly pouring time
Into a china bowl
Seducing the furniture
And the moon
That silver balloon
Frozen mid-air
Gently leaning
From its high balcony
Watching the scene

I think I will go to the sea and listen for a while
to the roar of dark ill tempered waves and ravenous black backed gulls , ceaseless circling gods who scan the beach, hopeful in search of any offerings given, trying to outdo the wind with their endless calling

I think I will go to the sea and watch the sky,
the shifting clouds a pencil sketch as yet unfinished,
a symphony of graphite  grey and mellow umber tones,
smoothed beneath some restless artists hand

I think I will go to the sea, to feel the wind on my ears
the sharp sting of blowing sand, frozen skin nettles
as I shrink into my scarf, a futile knitted bastion against such savage elements

I think I will go to the sea, but not today!