Poems sensing the end of summer

(And other random stuff)

The end of a summer so often feels like a damp squib, doesn’t it? It arrived with so much promise but this year, all the rain has meant much of its potential has been unrealised. A bit of a washout.

Do we say that every year, or does it just feel that way?

August

How little left before the gift

Of August is for leaving

Soft butterflies meet their demise

Grass ceases wend and weaving

Winged insects crawl as autumn calls

Wind howls, wolf of want

Treasure packed as gold haystacks

Each straw held to account

And every year, I shed a tear

Mourning the turn of time

The season ends, visiting friend

Once more, I’m left behind

Dishcloth

I felt myself

A wrung out dishcloth

Grey, worn, shapeless

Most highly regarded function

To mop up mess of others

Smooth over

Make clean

Forcing myself into their gaps

Swinging around

Catching each fallen crumb

Amoeba ballerina

Soaking up their spill

There it stays inside me

Saturating

Suffocating

Staining me

All their dirt

And there I sit

On standby

Bit part

in my own kitchen sink drama

Absorbent

Waiting for more

Of their shit

Sorrel’s Song

Sorrel burns for lessons learned

Digested by the grasses

The coral held as fire spell

Must fade as summer passes

She screams, her red as blood is shed

A silent fated cry

In uniform of wilting brown

Steadfast, waiting to die

China Cup

Breaks my heart, a china cup

On unforgiving floor

Piece by piece, I pick it up

To have it smash once more

I have my flaws - as you have yours

But weaken with each drop

What fate has love in frightened hands

If trembling cannot stop?

Rowan Tree

I stumbled on a Rowan tree

Each bough burdened with fruit

But still she seemed alive and free

Contented with her lot

How could she shoulder so much red

And never seem to care?

Her branches laden down as lead

For all to take their share

And there I stood, my colour pale

Inspired by what she was

A place to nest, to feast or rest

For drowsy wasps to buzz

She made it look so simple

Giving all so generously

Stripped of her bead, yet never sad

To be a Rowan tree….

Thrive

Making plans,

Planting my future firmly as a seed

Ignore demands

Keep faith that nature hands me all I need

Growing hope

In cuttings that I find along the way

Potting roots, spotting new shoots

Accepting bits of rain.

.

Taking stock

Of all achieved, each oak encased in earth

Hitting rocks

The glee as bees tend poppies I helped birth

Shaking pests that zap my zest

I strengthen as I strive

So long as there’s a rising sun

Hot limbs of dreams will thrive.

Bus Stop

“Disappointing weather”

Someone says every August

Like they were expecting

A Club Tropicana

“We’re supposed to be having an Indian summer!”

Another will chip in

Eyebrows will raise, people will smile.

“What do we expect? We do live in Britain!”

Is my line in this drama.

Cue polite laughter.

We’ve all made our peace

With what cannot be changed.