Tanka by Mathew Mitchell
The
flowers are blighted
And brown in the autumn wind,
Taken
by surprise:
Summer
can't last for ever -
Every
blossom has to end.
An
organ-grinder,
His
mate beats the tambourine -
A
bouncing jangle,
And catches small coins thrown down
From
half-asleep apartments.
Palms
in morning mist
Peep their heads out, and the
Hints
at November,
Flows
down to the cooling sea,
The home of ancient ruins.