September 6th 2023
After a cool wet-mooded August
With that stroppy gale which rattled many apples off their branches
Hard, tart, and all white-pipped…
Now, so unfairly, with the children back at their desks,
The wind swings continentally to blow Mediterranean hot.
And the sun stares strong as southern France:
Thus, with the sea so warm, no body needs a wetsuit.
Indeed, now most beaches are so people-sparse,
Nothing at all will do where a strand is Eden quiet.
Late honeysuckles fill our sleepy lanes like spilt scent
As blackberries fatten to sugary opulence, best flavour for years.
In patient meadows now baked at last,
Hay can be made from twice-grown grass;
And, though the barley’s sparse on last year,
At least it trailers home dry.
With this evening Greek island warm,
I climb our Beacon to see the sun to bed.
And it is so fine, the pale fawn breath of maltgrain stubble
Mingling those peaty retsina hints
Which rise yet from that charry regrowth
Where last year gorse and blackthorn blazed.
© Christopher Jessop 2023
