Days of Umbrage

 
How odd the pattern spreads,
Dead leaves caught gold.
In summer swelter’s pique,
Dead winter’s cold.
 
The childish laughs in wind,
Broken swings and dogs,
How deep the spirit’s pass
In ghost-breath fogs.
 
Beneath the canopies,
Gains evening shade.
Beneath, the mind, the heart,
Their plans dis-made.
 
In days of umbrage known,
How sweet the taste,
Of summer’s fruit betrayed,
Love laid to waste.
 





(um·brage – [archaic] - shade or shadow, especially as cast by trees.)
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