The wading pool is shrinking with the wasted sun
and the yellows of summer drain slowly away
exposing red bricks beneath the glittering spray.
With cast-off toys and leaves littered about their feet,
the bone-soaked nine-year-olds will squeal, crash, and run
through the last drops of liquid bronze and breaking heat
until the old pipes steal their gold and end their play.
Other poems about summer from Moss Kingdom: