I can see the opalescent light,
its place a jeweller's eye sockets
men and women take away in their pockets.
I give in to the remains of my sight.

In the metallic sheen of a November glaze,
there have been redesigned gems
amongst the fronds and ice-coated stems.
Windows of sunlight strike when autumn ends in a haze.

The poet knows what time brings in and steals:
a luxury holiday in the most beautiful sand.
You can try and test the weight of its significance in your hand.
The summer of twenty-four carat gold still appeals.

The emerald isles are in the verdant grass,
somewhere deeper and richer than the jewels
many starstruck lovers believe are for fools.
I stare beyond the shutters of the morning glass.

The diamonds and stones will live on,
sparkling in the winter rivers and streams
fishermen see in a instance in satin beams.
The jewellery of nature is a sapphire we turn on.

I used to sit in the passenger seat,
my world a season of fleeting scenes.
The strobes  were hitting frazzled greens,
taking in the midge-infested heat.

I watched the lakes dry up in guilt,
their stream of consciousness faded,
ripe with orchard desires that were shaded.
The long days were beyond what eyes built.

We blew out autumn weather in one go,
harvesting what others reaped and stored.
Our nightfall was closing in and had been endured.
We gave everlasting shadows their evening show.

Reviewing this time of blazing glory and change,
I seeked the moment daylight was found.
I knew it was gone before it was window -bound.
The summer song was silent and so strange.