At its impending start, one sets out at it with quite an opulence of mirth
With a longing for the warm dusks of idyllic summer's birth;
Even the other earthlings reassuringly echo the same sentiment
With their sudden burst of life and other virile penchants.
Never once does one suspect, or steal it even a fleeting askance
At the arrival of such seemingly joyful flamboyance.
But rendered wise or prejudiced with the last experience
Some would dither with their largess of exuberance
Nay even censure this unsuspecting comeuppance
Of a time that may yet betray one's expectance.
When the local cockerel crows its disdain at the close of a fine summer dusk,
There are some that, if able, bellow their cheer and jaunt with risk
To escape the sultry confines of their usual daytime abodes,
To be able to simply bask in the lusciousness of the twilight that unfolds.
From the horizon's volatile extents that snake the extremities of the sky
Wishing the sun good bye, and hoping the moon is nigh,
The two feelings, paradoxed by their existence
Yet trudge on to complement the other's presence;
Just like light gives value to darkness without any clamour,
And one subtly realises the absence of the former is meaninglessness of the latter.
So also it is with this passing time that waits for none
That cheats the one that thinks it can be measured by its periodic run;
When one finds oneself at the cusp of a metamorphosis,
A momentary cynosure that can lead yet further, or simply back into a receding abyss.
One wonders if it is simply fanciful imagination or naught,
Or what if it was just a semblance of scientific diligence with foolishness afraught?
The seemingly contrived seems no longer certain, hardly pertinent
That it would come to pass, or in the least be imminent;
That one is led through and through to yet again ponder
Whether one is simply drifting through the autumn of summer.
(9th Septmber 2013, Marseille)
With a longing for the warm dusks of idyllic summer's birth;
Even the other earthlings reassuringly echo the same sentiment
With their sudden burst of life and other virile penchants.
Never once does one suspect, or steal it even a fleeting askance
At the arrival of such seemingly joyful flamboyance.
But rendered wise or prejudiced with the last experience
Some would dither with their largess of exuberance
Nay even censure this unsuspecting comeuppance
Of a time that may yet betray one's expectance.
When the local cockerel crows its disdain at the close of a fine summer dusk,
There are some that, if able, bellow their cheer and jaunt with risk
To escape the sultry confines of their usual daytime abodes,
To be able to simply bask in the lusciousness of the twilight that unfolds.
From the horizon's volatile extents that snake the extremities of the sky
Wishing the sun good bye, and hoping the moon is nigh,
The two feelings, paradoxed by their existence
Yet trudge on to complement the other's presence;
Just like light gives value to darkness without any clamour,
And one subtly realises the absence of the former is meaninglessness of the latter.
So also it is with this passing time that waits for none
That cheats the one that thinks it can be measured by its periodic run;
When one finds oneself at the cusp of a metamorphosis,
A momentary cynosure that can lead yet further, or simply back into a receding abyss.
One wonders if it is simply fanciful imagination or naught,
Or what if it was just a semblance of scientific diligence with foolishness afraught?
The seemingly contrived seems no longer certain, hardly pertinent
That it would come to pass, or in the least be imminent;
That one is led through and through to yet again ponder
Whether one is simply drifting through the autumn of summer.
(9th Septmber 2013, Marseille)
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