Wednesday, 26 September 2007

Summer is sick

Summer stayed in her
Bed this year.
She is sick
And will not rise.
Her dirty blue-grey sheets
Lay over our heads
Her cold-fevered sweat
Flooded our homes
And Summer’s pestilent breath
Leave blisters on the
Tongues of our cattle.
Summer is sick but
The gulls’ new Pirot faces
Show that her time with us
Is soon to be over.
This year few will
Mourn her passing.

1 comment:

caMoore said...

Wow, this is a very visual poem.
I like the way you write:)