The last days of summer
These are the last and random days of summer
Flecks of whiteness hanging on
Clover, yarrow, ragged rose
Tissues, masks. Convolvulus
goes winding through the dry and brown
Remains of plants that flowered high
And branching in Victoria Park
There’s an egret in the pond
Like an angel - hanging on
Swift and swallows ... they have gone
The sky is white with whitish clouds
Ragged daisies - petals torn.
A testing marquee stands forlorn
Fungi growing from the wood
Of alder trees like bloated toes
Gleaming as September light
Shines weakly and this special year
Turns wearily towards the dark and cold
Still ragged - but it’s hanging on
Anita Greg 02/09/2020
The rose of the world
Oh heavy rose of Malmaison
On these thunderous afternoons
Your many-petalled head sways left and right
September winds are blowing down
from Belfast Lough among the cranes
The shouts of children playing on the swings, the roar
Of traffic from the carriageway
To Knock, the runners on the path are really nothing to the rose
Who keeps a world of secrets, any moment now
September rain
will fall down on the perfect flower,
and roll down to the earth like tears
Anita Greg 12/09/2020
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