Winging Away (Poetry)

Summer’s lease has now all but expired —
a few days left to pack the feast away,
the swallows mostly flown, their timing wired
to subtleties of change: these cooler days
when cruising dragonflies catch what they can
of tardy midges doomed to briefer span.

Late butterflies still dither, dazed by sun
that, for an hour, gains a basking heat
then powers down, its aching brightness done
as though it’s shone enough, so sinks, replete —
full of Summer’s after-supper glow
but lingering and seeming loathe to go.

Thistlefluff flies pillion on the breeze,
leaves rip themselves from branches, falling free
to flutter wide, lose height by slow degrees,
while migrants gather, twitter restlessly
and overhead the wild geese call them on,
winging southwards, eager to be gone.