So...the season withers,
and the fallen leaves, once more, become a mire
to the feet of a lonely traveller
ankle deep, with boots drenched
in dreams of a dripping lipped sultry summer
spent amid the soft moss and heather;
and, although that season may have passed,
this vagrant's heart still beats as he casts
his wayward gaze and blistered feet towards
the fresh bloom of the cotton grass,
in the swaying thighs of a buttercup dancing meadow...
and there he'll lie, and dream...once more,
until his season withers.
