It Was The Last Day Of May Poem by Gert Strydom

It was the last day of May
and winter was creeping,
in to every thing.

Dew had turned
to ripe and a chill,
was in the night air.

Brown trees were stripped
from leaves
and the yellow grass,
waved in the winter wind
as if dead.

Even the contract
was drawing to its end,
but I did not want to give away
knowledge from my speciality
that was acquired through studies
and by the experience of years.

How could any employer
expect the sun
of intimate knowledge to arise,
with a job’s demise?