Summer in August
my dear girl, why are you crying in the wind,
tearful rain in tresses running?
are the nasturtium kisses not enough?
or the plums that are ripe with rouge?
see how the shut-eyed daisies bow
before the geranium’s coronation crown;
and how resplendent the tomato courtiers are,
and how grand the runner beans, in bishop’s green;
and how your champagne rings and rings in pools.
smile a little as the cat whooshes in,
flying over her patio paws;
and smile a little more
at the snobby browning figs; and see
how the lobelia grandmothers gossip
about the stuck-up russet pears,
with dew drops on their nose.
and how the windfall apples go bouncing
red on the dancing gardner’s head.
but look now, the heavy sky rolls eastward,
and it is lightening in the west;
the greenhouse door squeaks open a peep;
where it has been sulking behind the woodpile,
that is not half as high, as it should by this day;
see there! a flash of squirrel,
eating of the hors d'oeuvres,
as the rain pumps up the nuts.
and of course, the sea sings all the more
when it is flouncing in the rain.
so summer, my love, take the day off today,
until the bank holiday rain has soaked away;
then put your best boater on,
the one with the yellow ribbon and a sash,
and we’ll warm to the promenade band again,
where the brasses shine up high
on a late august sunbeam’s flash.