Great tit on the warpath,
a blue one they call Louis,
red collar on the black cat,
sawfly on the gooseberry.
Airy thuds of football,
two girls and their dad,
on May the first the cuckoo called;
a reason to be glad.
Cabbage whites crysanthemumming,
unwieldy fluffy bumblebees,
honeysuckle fast becoming,
sandy feet and salty sea.
Rabbit nesting just in time,
a dotted scene of lambs,
stretched out open cones of pine,
microphones without amps.
Guitar reduced to strings of five,
record-breaking skipping,
stabilisers off the bikes,
no holes in the knitting.
Machines in fields of evening rush
to beat the next day's rain,
hawthorn blossoms torn and thrust
like hailstone to the panes.
Still-sealed foxgloves popped on palms,
bubbles, ice-cream, jelly,
sounds and scents of cutting grass,
hedges getting leggy.
Sudden elderflowers,
karate-kicking robins,
roses in a bower,
all to be forgotten.
(This is the first of three Summer poems of 2017. The second is Sorting June and the third is Keeping July).
