As a last resort
the sun hangs on for dear life
to autumn’s better days,
And now mourns
the summer’s scramble
back up the mountains
it melted down.
Its beach toys in decline, wilt,
and deflated bob — hobble —
jilted by a lithe wave
of wind blown sand,
cutting its course
across the seaside roads.
Cold winds to follow
brace the place
for September’s rains.
Now distinctly middle aged, this place,
and stout around the waist,
trudges in slow varicose gasps
towards December’s darker days.
