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Premonitions
by Gayle Watson
I feel it coming . . . .
a sense of deep foreboding,
a silent shadow creeps beneath
these warm golden days
of late summer.
Nights' air holds a certain crispness now,
while daily the waning sun valiantly
wages its timeless struggle to
renew the warmth for which I yearn.
Brilliant greens are fading,
appearing tattered and old.
Soon autumn's nightly frost will
transform those dusky greens
to vivid oranges, reds and golds.
Nature's last splendid gesture
before bareness and unrelenting cold
secure their merciless grip.
Aware every precious moment
of lingering warmth and daylight
must be cherished as a priceless gift
I am nonetheless assailed by
recurrent foul premonitions.
Weeks and months to come
of increasingly brief daylight hours
often consumed by bilious gray cloud-filled skies
belching forth torrents of icy, slippery wetness.
Dreary, barren landscapes of naked trees
and mounds of slushy snow
coated with a filthy layer of road grime and soot.
A deep freeze with wind -
chilling to the bone.
"Please be gone," I plead,
but my dark visions are too strong.
Icy, gray fingers draw me under.
Powerless. . . I surrender.
Cold and Dark slither within,
permeating to the depths of my being.
Late August visions
of another winter in Maine.
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