The air is still, not a breath anywhere,
Everything seems to be hanging immobile
In the amber sultriness of the September
Afternoon.

The bees having a last foray into the
Dying lavender,
Greedily collecting their final harvest,
To store the sweetness through the,
Hard winter months.

The fish in the cool deep pond,
Flapping and mouthing at feeding time,
Anxious to make the most of these last,
Summer rays
Before retreating to the murky depths
To while away those winter days.

The summer days seemed endless,
But the nights are earlier and cooler,
We retreat to warmth and slumber,
Until the misty water colour of a sun,
Rises over the distant Weald.

Molly Rosenberg