12. The End of Summer
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| Me in September 1972 |
It was the time of apples
ripening on trees,
and leaves changing to a deeper green,
when shadows drew their full lengths
across the August paths:
there was a subdued change
upon the fiery sun
that heralded September,
and in my soul there was a void,
I missed someone.
The rosy petals lying limp
upon the dying thorns:
the streams gasped in thirst
upon their dusty beds,
the birth of spring was dead
and counted days came to an end,
and through my mind
there passed a thought
a deaf remembrance.
The end of any event, period or life should always have its own celebration. Thus there is reflection, nostalgia and at times sadness to accompany the closing part. For a moment our minds are concentrated on what had been but is no more- there is a sense of loss, a taking away- a conclusion not welcomed.
But this concentration of thought, this dwelling on the fading away of that which we can no longer grasp does not last for ever- and neither should it last for long- for the end is only the beginning of something else. Just like the seasons that without much clamour merge into one another, lacking a precise marking of an end into a new beginning- but it’s felt. The sonorous drowsing of the end of summer flirting with autumn drapes the air as its melancholy breath clings upon our memories.
This sense of void the closing of summer leaves, occurred to me year after year but it was not until the summer of 1972 that I decided to write a poem to celebrate this going away- once and for all. And now, the poem returns to mind- I need to read it to celebrate the end… But of course there is no end... That is why the end of anything should be celebrated because it initiates a new beginning… always.
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