The Will

The trees down the hillside have taken a more sober hue yellow, pale green and brown, despite the weather tries to pretend it is still summer and tourists wear sunglasses when in jeeps they explore the mystic interior away from sandy beaches and summer charming waiters who hope the summer will last forever, without it they will soon be unemployed, yes, like it or not fall is here in all its glory, and it is also the time when I must write my will. I stop at a layby and compose my testament, the house goes to my wife and money left in the bank after the funeral expenses. My literary estate goes to my brother, which means he gets nothing of value, anyway he hates poetry, so this is my sweet revenge. But I love fall and hope to live to see another one.