Closed For the Season

The seasoned piper fills his lungs
then blows the bag to bloat -
bleeding out a squeeze of sad
as mourners haul and tote.

For summer’s ships are sailing home
in cars now packed with sand,
that trickles through life’s hour glass
And passes hand to hand.

"Here - Josie touched her first real wave.
There – Johnny surfed with pride.
And here the twins grinned sweetly from
one teacup twirling ride".

"A fish the size of Moby Dick!
We fought - but bought just these",
to fabled feasts of crabs and beer
for friends who shared our seas.



And as the piper pipes them on,
we bravely wave goodbye
concealing what we truly feel
as crocodiles cry.


But as the soundstage Falls away
our humble lives begin
easing out of costumed roles
and artificial skins.

Poisson au poivre is gone for good
replaced by fish/chick/steaks,
smells of goodness emanate -
“As baked by Jacque” – now Jake's.

And here beside this shift of tide
the piper takes a swig -
while locals weep to watch them go
then dance a joyful jig.


And now shops close and meters stop
as berries turn to seed,
each golden rod lures purple finch
whose swarm now swoops to feed.

Traffic jams are migrant birds
patrolled by just one fox,
while windowed doors are left ajar,
keys resting in their locks.

Lifeguard stands get rolled away,
the signs come from the fence -
those cautions of the obvious
replaced by common sense.

Cotton candied sweetness fades
displaced by steeping teas,
as well worn paths are now erased -
we roam where’er we please.

The crowds of geese now honk and land
upon the fields at night
to turn the stubbled harvest corn
from umbered orange to white.

The egrets rest in groves of pines
like tissues in a breeze
and earth erupts in coloured blaze
that burns from aging leaves.

So play your mournful tune, kind sir.
and let the mournful cry –
But, come next year I hope you’ll pipe
them out in mid-July!