by Marilyn Braendeholm
The garden gate is slamming —
the wind’s picked up, and August
is disappearing into drizzle;
sets petunias on their weary way.
A march toward mould and mess.
Odd how a slick of rain melts
purple blossoms into streaks
that stick to your fingers and
stain you like a typesetter
in a print shop — summer stains,
permanently blue. Blue, yes,
it’s the end of summer blue.
Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 320.
Marilyn Braendeholm, aka ‘Misky, lives in England surrounded by flowers in the summer, jars of sourdough starter in the winter, and old pots and pans when she’s testing recipes in the kitchen. Her poetry is regularly published by the literary magazine, Waterways: Poetry in the Mainstream.