35 – Cumulus

Poem number 35
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Cumulus
.
In wonder did he lie beneath
The clouds as white as children’s teeth
That puffed along on summer breeze
So common yet designed to please
A myriad of giant shapes
A chicken’s head, a bunch of grapes
He lay, he gazed, he wondered then
He closed his eyes, and slept again.

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95 – A Summer Parting

Poem number 95
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A Summer Parting
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I was born in sight of Christmas
On November’s dying breath
With the lunchtime rain forgotten.
Time has passed.
.
When I die it will be summer
With the sky a cobalt blue
And the butterflies alighting
On the grass.
.
My eyes will fade through blues and greens
To settle on your gentle gaze
And then close in the warmth of our sun
Your tears like glass.

97 – The Festival Is Coming

Poem number 97
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The Festival Is Coming!
.
The Festival is coming!
All the campers will invade
The middle classes slumming
With their hair in careful braids.
.
The Festival is coming!
Taking Caversham away
A mile of queues in Waitrose
And in Iceland, sad to say.
.
The Festival is coming!
All the pavements choc-a-block
Wristbands, wellies, silly hats
And thigh-high stripy socks.
.
The Festival is coming!
We can’t feed the duckies bread
By the river, so we’ll feed some
Up in Emmer Green instead.
.
The Festival is coming!
Quash those xenophobic fears
They’ll be gone again on Monday
And it’s only once a year.

98 – Day Watch Below!

Poem number 98
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Day Watch Below!
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Autumn is rising, his feet out of bed
Shaking the cobwebs and dreams from his head
Before him a season of effort and toil
Scouring the treetops and mulching the soil
But he’s willing and eager, ready to start
Refreshed and renewed with a song in his heart
He peers through the window, gauging the morn
There’s time yet for breakfast, he’ll clock on at dawn
To take on the baton from Summer, to say
“I hereby relieve you, now be on your way”
And settle his boots firmly into the reins
The thrill of beginning will run through his veins
His season, his nature, his banner unfurled
The Autumn begins. It’s his time. It’s his world.

102 – Take A Hike, Bozos

Poem number 102
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Take A Hike, Bozos
.
They went and took my legs away,
They said I had no right
To walk through England’s countryside
To sample the delight
Of the dappled autumn woodland
Of the frosty winter morn
Of the daffodils in springtime
Of the fields of summer corn,
Then they said I’d get my legs back
When they’d got their fifty grand –
But in truth I wasn’t bothered
For I had some spares to hand
So I simply strapped on new ones
Made of metal. Sturdy, strong
And I went right back to hiking
Through the meadows, all year long.

121 – Fishguard Harbour, A Summer Evening

Poem number 121
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Fishguard Harbour, A Summer Evening
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Boats lie all tilted on barnacle ground
Anchors redundant, no water around
The tide is as out as an out tide can be
So the harbour is grounded, not part of the sea
Just mud flats and rock-pools and seaweed left stranded
Amongst all those boats sitting skewed where they landed
But then the tide turns as the evening draws on
The water floods back, bit by bit the mud’s gone
And the boats, one by one, are afloat in a bay
Not stranded on mudflats but drifting away
So the anchors, awakened, are needed once more
Their lines growing taut as I watch from the shore
‘Til at last there’s a harbour, replete with a fleet
The Fishguard Armada, reborn and complete
The last rays of sunset reflected in red
On the darkening water, I should go to bed
But I stay a bit longer, entranced by the view
Just enjoying the harbour, now risen anew.

135 – B.S.T.

Poem number 135
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B.S.T.
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The sun is out, it’s lovely
And the clouds are fluffy white
But this British summer –
There’ll be floods before tonight,
The sky will crack with thunder
And the wind will tear our eyes
Then tomorrow there’ll be sun again
And gorgeous cobalt skies.

140 – Grey Plastic Skies

Poem number 140
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Grey Plastic Skies
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Grey plastic wheelie bins in a row along the street
Under grey plastic skies. Summer has sounded the retreat
Back to Autumn, six weeks yet until the withdrawal is complete –
Just a warning, these grey plastic skies.
.
No lamps needed yet when I rise from my bed
I can still see the wardrobe, though the morning light is now wed
To shadows, a grim foreboding of the darkness ahead
As I leave under grey plastic skies.
.
A breeze in the air now as I walk my commute
Sun hidden behind cloud, temporarily overawed. It is still resolute
To hold forth, later on in the day when the need is acute
But for now cedes to grey plastic skies.
.
The foliage still rampant green, close order drill
I let my eyes rove over trees still in bloom, knowing enough to eat my fill
Of Summer. Soon it will be time to find a waiter and ask for the bill
Coffee mints under grey plastic skies.
.
A reward, this, for the sin of arising early for work
The warnings of impending Autumn will be hidden from those who lurk
Still in bed. Only waking when the sun has burnt off the murk
And all signs of the grey plastic skies.
.
Those who have missed this first act will no doubt enjoy their blue skied day
Basking in the warmth and sunlight, forgetting that Autumn just weeks away
Will bring change. I will enjoy it differently, as the middle act of the play
That will end under grey plastic skies.