Second September sonnet, sing your song
Of golden autumn days. Wistful praise sung
As we look back from days that are less long
To recent summer, memories that stung
Like bees while humming, now turning to dung,
Or maybe thumbing through albums of mind,
Or strumming these autumnal strings once strung
In summer’s blue beyond, now left behind.
Blue skies chase blues away; they are consigned
To background slumming; shunning them’s not wrong.
But coming back to Monday, work gear slung
Over my shoulder, older, cold-resigned,
I find the blues accuse me, sound the gong,
And so it seems September sonnet’s sung.
Sun 2 Sep 2007
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