When the last roses flower in May
She awakes when the summer sun dims,
her eyes glow like radiant gold
and copper and bronze shimmer over her whole body.
Her lips glisten red like pomegranate seeds in the sun
and as she rises up she stretches out her hands
to reach the most distant corners of the land
in an embrace.
She rides on the wings of the wind
with her locks of hair fluttering
like flowers that are bound
in an amber coloured wreathe.
She is free and boundless
and almost reckless
while she changes the veldt
in the highland and meadows
with one single swoop.
She drapes the trees in the colours of the dawn
and when the flowering cosmos welcome her
she does frolic like a child
and scatters her magic everywhere
catching all of nature in her transformation.
Red poppies bloom in the golden grass fields
and there is a wonderful surprise in each aloe
bursting out in colour
while she hastens to complete her task.
She dances through the popular forest
and when the silver leaves fall
the trees are left bare and white
as a reminder of the coming sleep.
She cloaks all of the earth
with the last rays of her mantle of the sun
and light-footed she moves between the vineyards,
kissing the fruit and leaves with her lips
and with the last falling leaves
she draws back her arms
and cries with the winter rain
and says goodbye without a single word
when the last roses flower in May.
[Poet’s Note: “The seasons in the Southern hemisphere are opposite to those in the Northern hemisphere.”]
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