Greacen010

A Wind in Midsummer

Even in the midst of summer
A small, harsh voice many cry
While in the dusty August gutter
Tokens of a later season lie.

Now in this summer—suited weather
Look what flotsam can be found -
Brown and red leaves scattered dryly,
Obscenely wrinkled on the ground.

Then through the evening stillness
Passes a wind both sharp and neat;
A shiver of death brushes the silence,
And scatters leaves under our feet.