the last gasp of summer

As the summer days wind down,
the sunlight slices shadows
across the hay-baled meadows,
and ferns curl up, brittle-brown; 

as summer waves its goodbye
the monarchs ascend like kings
on their regal, stained glass wings,
catching currents wafting high;

as summer gimps to its end
the turtles scrabble from bogs
into warming heaps on logs
ere winter's deep-dive descent;

with a seed-strewing shudder
ripe mildweed's cracking open,
there's goldenrod profusion
at the last gasp of summer.

Liz McFadzean