It was always summer in the village –
at least, as I remember so
where school was a dry day cut-grass scent
and the park where the cowslips grow.
The slow honey buzz of a bee
as I lay on the old, bleached wood
of a bench in the green-paint
corrugated iron rain shelter – should
I watch the cricket on the green
or lie back and listen to the clunk
of leather on willow
and the shouts until they shrunk
and faded into zig-zag patterns
of sunlight through conker trees
on closed eyelidas and the sting
of vinegar on chips and ice-cream freeze
and home before tea-time
for home-grown salad
and Catholic masses.
Dandelion and burdock
in tall printed glasses.
8 comments:
Charming, both picture and words. We could do with more like that.
Thanks Dave. Appreciated.
An ode to summer?
Made me think of long summery dresses and parasols....especially the last line.
Thank you.
It was a memory of mine :)
That's a lovely poem, Rachel, filled with delightful English imagery.
Thanks Gina. It was my childhood, partly.
That's lovely! I adore the painting, and the memory was rendered beautifully.
Thanks Steph
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