Mum’s crepe myrtle looks like
a scarecrow,
devoided of her
summer dress.

A swarm of street trees, centre of the road cousins
had shaken their tresses, drizzled pink in the summer rain,
an isthmus between two roundabouts, insolently sporting their
Sydney Christmas summer apparel.

Our single backyard lady has ever
run………………………….. ………….. late,
swirly pink, a wink to our daughter’s
summer dress but……………………. late,

from my birthday to
the date of Juliet’s.

She’d worn a green petticoat
for spring, adorning it with a coral
coloured cloak
on the pink of summer.

Late Autumn’s wind-hands
have ravished them both, ruined
to the ground, under
summer’s pink moon

Did she miss my wife
this summer too?

23 April, 2024