There is a sadness in the air
At the season’s end.
A summer that never flourished
Too cool, too wet
With strewn petals, windblown and brown
Food for slugs.
There is a sadness in the sun’s return
At the eleventh hour
A final cavalry charge to save the year.
Too late, we say,
We who waited beneath the dripping trees
Mourning the fallen roses
And never noticed beneath the lowering cloud
That the swallows had all gone.