Indian Summer

Fallen leaves, crimson and brown,
whistle and whisper delicate whims,
high tree with expansive crown
spreads barren and dark limbs.

Uphill gleams  golden light,
its tiny coins vibrating,
walking shadows move out of sight,
their blue profiles ruminating.

Come, Indian Summer,
creation awaits and wants you to breath.
Come, then go into quiet slumber,
gather thin twigs to make colourful wreath.

Coming uphill
where golden light still shone,
I saw the field   bright and serene,
dusk silenced the birds
until following dawn,
lucid clouds danced over hill and ravine.

Twilight fell upon the cold soil,
God's season of harvest
 was passing away,
quietly yielding to the Lord's call,
woodlands drowsed
 till awakening day.