Indian Summer

Like the October winds

I spin out of control,

searching for where

the bare earth waits.

Lopsided, twisting,

throwing off broken pieces,

stripping down to the exposed veins.

I can no longer taste

the sweet purple of spring.

The soft velvet carpet of green

now feels harsh and withered

beneath my carefully measured tread.

Leaping between wintry blasts

and broiling heat.

Clinging, damp, pungent aromas,

waiting to be washed away in a

startling molten wash.


from the sweet yellow heat,

into the following season.

My private Indian Summer.


Author: Jo Bryant

I was born in the land of Banjo Paterson, gum trees, and weather extremes. I am a freelance writer. I live in the Bay of Plenty, New Zealand, but still like to claim my Australian heritage. I graduated with a Bachelor of Communications in 2008. I am writing my first novel. I love to write poetry, short stories, and also write for the web. And there is nothing that is on a par with a sunny summer's day spent at Waihi Beach.

There are two things I know for certain. One: Bert and Ernie are gay. Two: I want to hear your opinion.

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