old men weep
on summers death
as damsons
fallen, now mouldy
shrivel to raisin,
rot, leave liver spots
on short green grass,
old women group
in rememberence

 

for the once strong men
who in youth climbed
to the highest boughs
for only there
can you harvest
the sweetest of fruit
fond memories
and wishful thinking
see the women
smile

 

this seasons wine
will be sweet
uncorking
should go well
yet truth is undeniable
for each passing year
the wine tastes
increasingly
bitter