Sweet Summer...part 3

Click links below for

Sweet Summer- Part 1

Sweet Summer- Part 2

I began this poem the other day,

to commemorate the tipping point of August's halfway mark! 💖💖💖

Halo of gold and maroon...

Serenade of cricket-croon...

Where the floral colour-spree

Lures bard, 

butterfly...

and bee; (the bees wouldn't sit still enough to give me a good shot 😅)

Where the wonder of the world

Sparkles in dew-gilt unfurled...

Of gardens, bursting, and how

With earth’s tables heaped with chow...

Halo of gold and maroon

Serenade of cricket-croon

Morn, noon night, vibrato-lilt

Trembles in ensembles, spilt

Where the sizzling heat wave broods

Over dark and still-life woods

Where the floral colour-spree

Lures bard, butterfly and bee

Where the cornfields grow and grow

Like infantry, row on row

Where the florid landscape lies

Like a Painter’s Paradise

Where the wonder of the world

Sparkles in dew-gilt unfurled

Feeds the whine of combine-loot

Weighs the wispy vine with fruit

Stuns the poet, middle-stride

With the ink of August-tide

With the hazy, lazy grief

Of boughs, dense with sighing/dying leaf

Of gardens, bursting, and how

With earth’s tables heaped with chow

Of the gard’ner, overcome

By a seed’s volupt’ous sum

Of the brook, bereft of lay

Lyrics lost to reeds and clay

Of the pigment of the rose

Formula God only knows

Of wild lilies of the field

Spilling in copious yield

Of the rush, before the hush

After sedum’s school-girl blush

Of fleet, bittersweet dog-days

Of summer’s soft-slipping ways

Of the hummingbird that drinks

From bloom founts; reds, purples, pinks

Of hydrangea’s lavish crown

Pretty as a bridal gown

Of orchards in quiescent form

Like the calm before the storm

Of kitchens filled with chop-slice

Vinegar and pickling-spice

Dill, parsley, basil, foray

Canners never put away

Menus brightened with fresh voice

Where the cook is spoiled for choice

While the spider spins and spins

While summer’s silk lining thins

While dust wafts o’er dusky day

While the barefoot children play

While the mother collects art

Lost to touch but kept in heart

While the fondness for each flow’r

Falls prey to the baying hour

Falls prey to Bygone’s clenched fist

Clutching at frayed fronds of mist

© Janet Martin

Of hydrangea’s lavish crown

Pretty as a bridal gown...

Of kitchens filled with chop-slice

Vinegar and pickling-spice...

Dill, parsley, basil, foray...

Canners never put away...

Menus brightened with fresh voice

Where the cook is spoiled for choice...

While the spider spins and spins

While summer’s silk lining thins

While dust wafts o’er dusky day...

While the barefoot children play...