Gold on green,
grey skies gone, now blue.
I let the washing line
of clothes
obscure my eyes.
Kids playing in the park,
a soundscape until September.
Now the blaze of June,
heat of July.
a massing ensemble of birds
trumpeting autumn’s flags
of remembrance.
A golden curtain
drawn on the season,
before the darkened dreams
of December.
Children’s laughter
and breeze-blown clothes
cloistered until May.

Patrik Gryst