I sit on the garden steps, soaking up the last of the summer sun.
The swallows and swifts flew back last week, perhaps just begun.
Their cries and screams in the clear blue cathedral sky won’t be heard till next year.
Ducks come in now, winters long arm to bring us its cheer.
The sun’s on my back, my scars in the shade.
A stone on the path of life near a glade.
A pebble that’s walked on, crunched in the mud.
Shines like a star in the heavens above.
So many points to choose in the sky.
Sit in the garden and see the birds fly,
The trees are in Autumn’s last gasp green.
The thunderstorms growling and lights up the scene.
The flashes skip across the burnt air.
And I sit and write in this garden chair.
Summer has gone now so autumn’s begun.
Its our little boy’s birthday, a chance for some fun.
I’ll hold him so tight and hope a stone he won’t be.
Just a stone on the path like his dad in the dust.
Who sits in his chair and grumbles and rusts.
The raindrops start falling, see the ink run.
Time to go in, the poem is done.