Ghost of Summer
A poem
A poem
Grey-brown bark-like dragon scales
woodland’s earthy mossy trails
leaves that drizzle autumn sun
to dapple grasses newly spun
I see you leaning by a tree
standing mute, a filigree
of dampened, straggled matted hair
all bathed in tepid valley air
now bending down, you squint and peer
you mouth some words and wipe a tear
a stone beneath the powdered dust
with metalled words unloved by rust
a faint prayer carried on the breeze
that filters through the verdant frieze
you run, barefoot, your spirit free
and leave behind what once was me.