FADING

Yesterday was a song
of heat and rain
but each morning

the sun calls my name
a little later, a little
less insistently,

and seasons spin
about the North Star,
God's bull-roarers humming.

Tomorrow's tune will
carry a cold cadence,
a discord of winds,

but now I hear Summer
fading in the morning,
gently fading away.

Stephen Brooke ©2008