LAST DAYS OF SUMMER

They await their fate. Summer’s passing leaves only death now. That cocoon of industry, kamikazely protected, vacated as other, less airborne spindling creatures attach their labour in spiralling formations. Yet all have not yet subscribed to that number: Roaming not in luscious colours, this chill that nips whilst striking discord in that productive melody, it still beats on, unsure as to what progression this change was meant to merge. 

Only death waits them now. While still brazenly coloured, attuned to what once was the season’s colours, now those bold stripes mean only passing irritation: Already that fight has being fought and, like forgotten soldiers stationed disjointedly in lonely outposts of an already-fallen empire, these drones know not the impossibility of that which they seek – they must die the death appointed them, annihilation and nothing less. 

And still that date eludes them. Those shrugs and disinterested swipes their buzz is met with, accumulates their sense that all is not right. Their dwindling population sparks unsettling indications: That sought nectar, the sustenance of their servitude, is not to be found; that once unisoned vibration beat with such vigour, is no longer met with rhyming responding calls. Alone now are these redundant vectors. Death only awaits them now. 

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