The Wild Geese I.P.

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2637/3827647244_cabbcdb384_m.jpg

The geese are flying south
Across the milky white expanse
As we sway, mouth to mouth
At the end of summer’s dance

The parasols are weaving;
there is a hint of autumn wind.
Winter’s scout is thieving
and the robber won’t rescind

Ah, would our hearts could fly
and chase the summer of our souls;
so, would never kiss goodbye;
pay stoic nature’s tolls.

But summer is more fleeting
than youthful passion’s rites;
with sun-filled days soon meeting
up, with frost encrusted nights.