Summer Inspirations - Part 3
The warmth of the sun
Teasing the aroma of freshly
Mown garden lawns from the
Timeless whitewashed weather worn cottages.
A lofted cliffside promontory overlooking
A sweeping, Cornish pasty coloured beach
Reached down history's steps - centuries-smoothed.
Bays and coves and locally guarded-secret inlets.
Standing at the entrance of a low-tide cave;
Listening to the approaching waves
And the voices and echoes of
Those who once stood here too.
Family and friends returning
In pleasant waves
They are here.
We hear them.
The wind evening-whips the
Last of the beach-walkers,
Sand and grit decorating lips
And the sea-spray leaving briny white
Streaks across faces, children with
Salt and pepper eyebrows and panda eyes
Ringed with the sea and sun.
The sun sinks now, hurried by
An impatient full moon waiting faintly
In the fading skylight.
It feels as if the sun leaves too early,
Or maybe childhood memories
Stretch the summer
Far beyond imagination.
Does the sun age? It seemed so much
More youthful then, playing with the
Seaside children and staying out all
Summer long, barely dipping to a horizon
Rest, before peeking its head long before
The early dog walkers and kite surfers and
Sand joggers and yoga stretchers and Zen meditators had ensconced themselves on the dawn sand.
But now the sun gives a cursory glance,
A chilly hello, and summer shrugs its cold shoulder and looks towards an early autumn.
A climate, an atmosphere that
Has definitely changed.
A Summer Place
Old Father Time
Checks his watch
Scans the wicket
5 minutes before 11 O'clock
Ring the bell at Lords
Announce the start of play
The Umpires lead out the teams
The Test Match starts today
It's 1991, Gooch and Atherton
Standing poised at the wicket
Sir Curtly Elconn Lynwall Ambrose
- Right arm over,
- Ridiculously fast
- 90 mile an hour bouncers
- That menacing smile
Summer starts now,
Let's play cricket 🏏
The Summer Garden
The garden is in full bloom.
Aromatic, evocative, redolent
Of summers past -
Where the first strawberries
Ripen in the June sunshine,
Decorating the tongue
With ever-sweet memories.
We toast the sun, raising
A glass to the past and
To the now, blessed in
The blissful tranquility
Of flowers and birdsong,
Of bee hum and the gentle
Chatter and play of grandchildren.
Setting up the tent, for happy
Evenings spent in the company
Of family. A holiday at home,
The only time I'll pitch the tent
A sanctuary and a retreat
For wearied bodies and aching feet.
The summer walkers parched and
In need of something invigorating to
Imbibe and while away the
Drawn out evenings under a
Capacious sky, as the sun
Cools its ire, the fire of the day
Extinguished in a golden sunset.
Yet, to some this inertia, this - stop - is
A longueur, a tedium, a wastefulness
Of the moment, the day, the evening.
Not so. Every second is fulfillment.
Every moment is treasured.
The garden absorbs time and
Gifts peace and happiness.
A pleasure in the simplest
Andy Fincham River Flows and Pigeon Calls. River mist, Feigns to lift But not just yet The sun is having A lie in The Severn flows Barely discernable In the half light Of a peaceful Sunday morning Alone, just the Quiet cooing of The welcoming committee Of Worcester's Wood Pigeons Branches all along the banks The last blossoms Retain their scent that Mixes with the dew And the freshness of A river-ed dawn The Malverns sit, stoic At peace, awaiting the Summer warmth and Hordes of afternoon boots; Post lunch walkers A reminder of when We climbed Big Hilly Our gang of mates Racing to the top in minutes, Ah, you see Big Hilly was only a small hill. But when you are young Everything seems bigger More exciting and tangible. But now the kids have Nowhere to explore. The waste grounds And scrub lands The fields and meadows Bulldozed and house-built And tiny gardens where You don't hear the Wood Pigeons anymore. Inspired by David Wall
Insect and Fish Bites See the Mayfly On the Severn, Teme and Wye Streaks of silver sunlight Playing across the surface Carried by the eddies and ripples From the pouting trout mouths That break the surface, Sulking as the Mayfly outwits them, This time. From the morning banks Words are sparse, a whispered Hello to a fellow early riser A dog walker, a rambler An angler, a foot dangler in The still cold current, Summer rarely penetrates The river depths that retain Autumn-winter bite. Distant smoke rises in a sinuous Vertical plume, accompanied By faint crackles and wood-snaps A bit early for burning, Probably an early veg-plotter 'Bonfire of the Allotments.' Another hour watching the fish Watching - mocking - teasing - me, They're not stupid, But canny buggers It's far too light and bright And clear and the fly and bait Just waits and waits and there'll Be no bites today. The fish won't be had, just glad They can run and hide Bide their time And wait for the real flies, The Mayflies to settles Though these days Unlike the anglers All the insects Are in short supply Inspired by Simon Batten