Sunday, 28 September 2014

Warm September

September, balmy as June,
And the air has a warmth and a thickness,
And the rosehips glow
In the afternoon,
Prepubescent in their spotlessness,
But ladybird-like in their redness,
Though altogether too slow,
To be ladybird-like in their quickness.
But a ladybird squashed by a bike
Must cease to be ladybird-like;
But does becoming lifeless
Make it rosehip-like in its deadness?
September, balmy as June
And the fruit of the blackthorn is sloe,
In the heat of the afternoon,
Adolescent in its sleepiness
As a sloth and just as slow.
And the blackness comes and goes,
Now it glows
Like the nose of that creature,
With beetle-like, granite-like shininess,
Then it seems to absorb,
All the light of the orb,
And a new distinguishing feature:
A bloom of dullness and dreariness grows.
And September balmy as June,
Turns me barmy as loonies out under the moon,
As a dreamy, afternoon weariness shows
In my face, as my mind
Leaves all reason behind,
And begins to see fruit hanging up by its toes.

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