Indian Summer, a Poem

Landscape with female bathers, Pierre-August Renoir, 1885

Indian Summer

Long, Summer-like days, how shorter
You have all grown!
Yet, look at the sun: boldly
It shines still, in the terse skies:
Yellow, bright, warmer even...
A true deceit!
How a body clings, as it recedes
And sinks, in a sea of mellow memories.
Now that the clouds set to huddle
In the brooding heavens,
Like in a flock they gather,
And grow darker, for a storm
Is foreknown in the sultry air.
Then, one fine evening,
Suspended in await, 
Simply and  inexorably,
Like all earthly things,
The cool breeze that
Settles in afterwards, tells a story
As old as the world.
Then, the tree that was green
Sheds its leaves, and rattles,
And chills.  

Barcelona, Catalunya, October 2013

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