THE LAST AFTERNOON OF AUGUST

THEN

Briefly, under an azure sky

the golden leaves

fell in sunshine

& hope soared

in my mind

which knew

there was none.

NOW

Under white clouds

pregnant with cold rain,

tree branches shed

their faded leaves

into a rising, sharp-edged

breeze, which

brings back

memories of the

vast desolation

of the treeless Lapland tundra

during deep-buried years

and my parents

are there,

just beyond

vision.

STILL

My foolish mind

embraces

these wind-awakened

memories, and

leaf-like, hope

rides the cold wind

as the last August

afternoon grows old.

31.08.2020