I sit, far away, on a dry desert rock,
remembering English autumns of long ago,
distant in time, distant in place,
from over my shoulder, a voice calls to dream.
The dull sun of those long summer days,
slipping away like a lover in the night,
Sylphs of the forest, fleeing the dragon of autumn,
scorched scales dropped on the soft peat floor.
Long since gone, those brown-clad days,
the earth covered with its dying leaf quilt,
rotting heat rising from its mouldering threads,
warming the soil against the cold winter’s bite.
Now I watch the Levantine autumn,
passing with the speed of a whirling cloak,
that the matador pulls before a raging bull,
the wadi’s deadly torrent sweeping all in its wake.
So go softly from me, summer memories of old,
release your soft embrace, with silent steps,
I plead, go away, so you can return once more,
after the desert wind calls, and like the sylphs, I flee.
Submitted to the PROMPAPALOOZA! Writing Contest. See more here: