Summer's almost over,
It's threadbare
As your towel;
The summer sands
Are shifting,
The beach
Is headed south.
The initialed picnic tables
Are stored for other outings;
The concession windows
Flapped now,
The busker's shouting quelled.
Sails are dropped
Like maple leafs,
The moon's rising
Too soon;
The night lights blaze
Over pitch and field,
Where sunshine
Shone in June.
Geese are wedging daily
To escape the wintery gloom;
I'll reacquaint
With hinter sounds
Of lake winds
And banshee loons.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem