Tuesday 29 August 2017

Change of Season

At the seaside I notice a last desperate flurry of activity before the demise of summer.
 I also notice our elders beginning to don gloves and socks, specifically designed to deal with colder climes.
While the rest of us scurry for comfort, they'll stick it out all winter long...or for as long as they can. This poem is for them.


The park has been shorn of its summer mane
And wears a razed pate, smelling of meadow- sweet
And nettle and yarrow- strewn across its salon floor

 And in the garden I practice euthanasia
Root out jaded lobelia, cut back and secateur all
That is stooping and failing

And at the shoreline Mothers stand lifeguard
While their young take a final plunge
Before the tyranny of school timetable begins

And though the temperature is dropping
And lifeguards pack away their red and yellow paraphernalia
Our elders wade in, ready to embrace and endure 

This change that has begun to shift 

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