In early August
Leaves on the ground
Are blown around.
Autumn must
Come in with September.
I remember
Barefoot girls in summertime
And lust
Only half understood.
In woods
Autumn leaves become dust.
My blood
Still runs hot.
And the graveyard plot
Calls us all.
Girls in short clothes
Have fun
In the summer sun.
Who knows
Where the summer goes
At summer’s height
Girls delight
In short frocks.
And, on occasions, choose
To lose
Their shoes
And socks.
For by going bare
To the summer air
They find there
The joy of youth.
At summer’s height
The poet takes delight
In girls who
Go without shoe
Or sock,
For they sense not
Time’s, impending, knock.
When old men make a pass
At the youthful lass,
I wonder whether
Either party ever
Look in the glass
And think, “all this will, one day, pass”
Nymphs will play
And hair turn to grey.
The woman (once girl)
Seeing autumn leaves whirl,
May consider the youthful lass,
And think, “all things must, one day, pass”.
A new, unsullied page
Will be turned, as it must.
Love and lust.
Heels wear down with age.
2 young girls talking about shoes.
What will they choose
When they reach the age where
Few will care
What they choose
To do
With stocking or shoe?
It is by no means unknown
For a middle-aged man to flirt
With a much younger Joan
Who, in her short skirt
And stilettos high
Laughs at the clumsy pass
Of the receeding guy.
Her face in the glass
Is full
Of youthful vigour.
The dull
Tick tock
Of the bedside clock
Does not figure
In her thought, for she is but twenty
And there is plenty
Of time.
Much has been sung
Of women young
And middle-aged men who knew
Better, yet themselves flung
At the feet
Of maidens far from discreet …
So when I meet
Girls with high-heeled feet
I think with delight
Of the hot night,
Then sigh for that can not be,
For I am growing old you see …
In short frocks
And with feet bare
They have no care
For clocks
That whir.
College girls whirl,
unthurl.
Blossoms borne on a spring breeze
Tease
And please
Young men
Who, forgetting book and pen
Turn
And learn
Full well
What no dull
Text can tell.
K Morris - Poet 