Snapshots of Summer by Andrew Bell


Snapshots of Summer

The May blossom, once laden
with exquisite snow-white sleeves, is now long gone,
but remains poised in another world
to be reborn in late summer,
dressed as the hawthorn’s haws, ripening.
And, as the summer evenings wane, and the morning light
slips, the peonies, once proud and brashly red,
are now collapsed, with petals scattered.
The delicate roses, once feisty, are now drab
and self-effacing.
The tired leaves of the birch and aspen, appear patchy
and disfigured,
all slowly sickening, forever patient in their readiness
for the fall to come.

But always, there remain the pleasing summer sights
and sounds of childhood:
the insistent droning of a distant plane,
breaking the silence of sultry sunny afternoons,
the stifling heat invading my upstairs room, mitigated
by a whining fan my mother brought,
bringing some relief, but interrupting sleep..
the persistent clicking and chirping of the grasshoppers
emerging from the long grass behind the shed
and those long summer evenings, when the day
suddenly quietens, and there is a hush in the trees,
as the sun vanishes below the horizon, gilding
the distant hills with an incandescent glow of ochre and red,
quickening the cloudless sky to a delicious blue
heralding a stunning starlit display,
as dusk gives way to night.

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