August, I Love
M
Mark Heathcote
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August, I love your parched lips
for the twining clematis
they're like orientalists
that shows no sign of an eclipse
for rosehips that slowly hints
leaning like a burning pyre
a drop of blood dipped in fire
every blushed; red, inch.
August, I love teasing fruit
that sits on high, up aloft
waiting - but soon to be scoffed
to fall like some treasured loot.
For the way, you are so lazy
but equal in day or night
for your sunflowers upright
looking now, quite ungainly.
August, I love the chattering calms
when the eggs, have-been-laid
every flower has been brocade
and geese forget their qualms.
For it is then in my youth
I remember the willow
and the warmth of my pillow
sunsets, more dappled and diffuse.
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