Towards Summer’s End

Fresh-washed, summer meadow-smelling clothes
Pegged out on the sun-yellow line, triangularly,
Towards the end of summer
In the meadow of our back garden; the punk heads
Of the dandelions, bright, colourful,
Make our garden more exciting –
Weeds.

They would be mown down, only the necessary machine
Is broken, perhaps on holiday;
I think the butterflies are glad about that.

Towards the end of summer, as we approach
September, we hope to see the back
Of the black beetles that encroach upon our living
In otherwise well-worn, but hoovered, rooms;
The yard brooms brush away more leaves
From the front drive –
Still employed until the deaths of winter arrive.

Skies lie back, white-frilled, warmth-relaxed,
Enjoying to the last before the Big Chill;
People sit out, or squeeze in one last barbecue
On a weekday night, still
Not letting go of Heaven’s season
In which full bloom one may believe
In purpose and in reason.

Parks’ backs crawl with us, one and all,
Enjoying a Sunday stroll – because Saturdays
Weren’t made for this. No families, please,
We’re British.

The poor little sods will soon go back
To school, and the shortening, darkening days
Will bring forth the usual start-of-the-new-year’s
Malaise;

Soon mum will hang clothes on inside lines,
And butterflies will all have fluttered by,
No flowers or weeds left to investigate
That may have happily and colourfully populated gardens;

Old people are in for months
Of feeling the cold. Towards the end
Of another summer, we wend; our times bend
On round further corners’ seasons,
And the years that lie ahead,
Unfathomed as yet,
Will be chased down and made to reveal
Themselves in profusion, or in lack, of appeal.