Indian Summer

Indian summer

I hate September mornings.
When mist rises from
the warm water of the lake.
like smoke signals to a God.
I know it is a harbinger
of what is being taken from me.
The swirling rapids turned red
with falling leaves stealing all colour
from the trees.
I can hear the still warm breezes
remaining from the dying summer.
Whispering almost tauntingly
"Its coming"  Beware ..Beware.
I am never ready
not just yet.
September is a thief.
I will never forgive it
for all that it has 
stolen from me
Especially for taking you.