Days of Play

We used to visit here at sunset,
when time is changing the colour of the world.
when the sun glittered through the outline of oaks,
down upon his silky black fur,
tainted with the dusty dirt and crumpled leaves.

Underneath this infant tree we play.
He rolls around in a pile of burnt orange and yellow leaves,
edges curled up, the play-filled rustling
His heaviness breaks the dried veins of the leaves into thin fragments
That are picked up by the wind and drizzled onto his belly, downy and round.

He slides his back more deeply into the puddle of dirt and leaves.
The bright setting sun forces his eyes to close, to bathe in the last warmth of summer.
My fingertips upon his belly, he claws and bites, then licks in remorse.
We play. We play until the hour comes when the moon glides into the darkened sky.

We go inside for the night.
Nights into years, one score and I sit again.
And in this falling autumn, the leaves have turned soon to be detached from the branch,
to soar on the October wind down onto the clods of dirt, patches of weeds,

nestled underneath lies that black cat
who once ran rampantly through this pasture
chasing the butterflies that rested upon the sweet honeysuckle weeds
his moss green eyes gazing wider at the sight of prey to play with, frightened field mice.

He ran circles around this infant tree.
But now, while time has been a fortune for one
Time has put the other to rest.

I now sit under this mother oak,
My heavy head leaning against her trunk
My body nuzzled between its rippling roots
I breathe in the last scents of summer
Now being carried away on the Southward wind
to leave us for winter again.