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  • September, your new look flatters,
    hinting at things to come;
    the angle for sunlight is lower,
    & stars that lived overhead,
    now tighter to the curve of the sky.
    And Sky, with her blue less electric,
    is showing me a smile.

    Corners of children are waiting
    for yellow ships to whisk them to school,
    they know that summer must fade.
    Truth told it's packing, but hasn’t left yet,
    three golden weeks within its domain,
    till Twenty-Two ushers it out.

    Here the grass is brown again,
    a suntan on its green skin,
    the leaves all falling plain yellow,
    while summer considers
    autumn’s request.

    If tomorrow was a birthday,
    a cake with candle wish,
    what I might & could be
    is wind to fill a sail.

    Heyerdahl hadn’t the notion
    till Kroepelin let him look,
    at all those books in Oslo.
    Ten years they say it took,
    to spark an interest (get the cash)
    to crash that raft in forty-seven.

    My hero’s gone but still he rests,
    ever seaward-looking,
    high on Micheri bluff.
    There's a perch for a sea-faring knarr,
    sure of a world that is whimsy.

    acrylic painting by David Brooke, Walking On The Backs Of Fish
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