Summer lingered long, never took.
Light spilled, sat easy, asked for a truce.
Now, laughter darkens, learns to wait.
A season peels off trees in golden ochre, bloodred, rust.
Eyes roll, all colours whisper, no intention of remaining.
‘Hear me’, the caught leaf sings, pinched between two fingers.
I close my fist.
The faintest heartbeat stops.
Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing & common butterfly following German, a writer, performer & linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000.