Every year, the bright
Scandinavian summer nights
fade away without anyone
noticing.
One evening in August
you have an errand outdoors,
and all of a sudden
it’s pitch-black.
A great warm, dark
silence
surrounds the house.
It is still summer,
but summer is no longer
alive.
It has come
to a standstill;
nothing
withers, and autumn
is not ready to begin.
There are no stars yet,
just darkness.
The can of kerosene
is brought up from the cellar
and left in the hall,
and the lamp is hung up
on its peg by the door.
Day by day,
everything
moves closer
to the house.
Tove Jansson, from The Summer Book, p.166
cjheries 
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