I shall die in mid-September
As the summer ends
With the trees half green, half gold
And the sun still afloat after dinner
I shall die as the summer dies
With the echoes of TMS not yet muffled
Beneath the leaves of autumn.
I shall die as thoughts turn to anoraks
Outside bulbs and one more cut before oiling
And storing the mower.
I shall die as the summer dies because I am the summer
In all its glory
I am endless days, cricket, the sound of distant music
The face turned skywards to feel the gentle sun
Through closed lids.
Not for me the darkened afternoons of winter
Those grey sludged pavements, whipping rain
The endless search for warmth, no comfort
In a too distant Christmas.
When I die with the summer it shall be in triumph
All will be well
I will die with the fading summer sun, cold skin warmed
By the certainty that for me, at least,
The winter will never come.