The end of a Summer
I see the gray blinds
lines and squares
my flannel shirt rests
on the chair
I should be sitting in...
hear me think about half
a workday gone
in the year that just began
see me drag lead ball
and paper chain
wrapped around my foot
first assignment of the year
waiting to be discarded
let me spell
When the cherry tree turns red
she illuminates the square,
warming up the surroundings,
making the old bike bright
with sunrays hitting at an angle.
Autumn’s cold breeze quickens
the steps of the students first to pass
head down under my window.
having risen earlier,
they show the dedication
true in reluctant early birds
still rubbing their tired eyes
in the haze of an undying dawn.
Complicit the sun silently
plays its part by showering
us with abundant sunlight.
at the end of light-years,
sunrays caress my face
at the library’s doorway.
bone crushing chill by the cherry tree
that refused to bloom in the spring.
but why choose late September
to display a dying reddish halo?
pimped cherry tree
like a lady from the seventies.
radiant in frigid autumn morning.
diva standing on asphalt carpet.
posing behind manicured bushes
in Gottsunda Centrum’s parking lot.
under the gaze of a red bicycle!
Once in a while he brings me gems
of polished lines and clean verses
cut to different sizes and measured
with care as only nature can do
linked to one another they flow slowly
they roll out of the tip of my tongue
released by the muses’ warm breath
O the wonderfulness of an exhalation!
How then to write about the presence
of white snow decaying on the lawn!
about eyes seeing green grass
trying to punch through running ice
winter rain slowly sips by the side
of little red houses with white windows
Swedish red houses with black roofs
in a season feeling the agony of death
an ordeal for the poetically minded
witnessing the colors irregular shifts
from bright to dark in the course of a day
and during a night devoid of stars
snow always dies by sunrays
crystal molecules turning to mush
visited by the human disrespect of
feet trampling all over lost beauty
people looking up and not down
at winter’s trash by the roadside
disappearing snow taking with it
the poet’s dreams and his words
It is still here, in the parking lot
by the church. It stands naked.
buck naked - without its leaves
fallen and blown away last fall.
yet leaves always return in spade,
green as foliage covering stems
on branches bearing bird nests
and sparrows nesting in them.
flowers will slowly pop up
to create magic when needed.
a purple tree. in Gottsunda square.
how glorious the cherry will be
blossoming once more this spring!
Roland Ngwée Ngijol is a Cameroon-Swedish poet,
translator and librarian. He works at Gottsunda library