And though the darkness now appears
earlier each day
it’s good to see the summer lights
still twinkle here I’d say
For even though it’s cooler now
they speak of pleasure past
and keeps the memory intact
ensuring it will last
In the woods which my daughter
Called home for a while
Stands a structure quite tall
Full of mystery and guile
A treehouse built high
Now abandoned and sad
Though its stairs and its walls
With wood are still clad
But unfinished it lingers
Fenced off it its prime
Which is not all that far
I would say from a crime
To the woods in the rain
To sit by the fire
And warm up my hands in the dry
The sound of the drops
As it hammered down lots
And the summer hurried on by
October arrives
and autumn is come
now the last day
of September is done
Days getting shorter
shadows are long
and though the sun stays
it’s not quite as strong
So the sun sets on the month of May
and June is almost here
already we have seen pass by
not far off half a year
Unsure where that time has gone
it’s happened quite so fast
and life has changed dramatically
and looks quite set to last
Memory is the not-quite-living museum of our lives, and dusty.
You’re not sentenced to remain what you already are.
You may change, grow and split the hardened
carapace of a self that no longer fits,
and like the seven-year locust,
climb high into a tree and
claim your rebirth.
But first comes
mere courage
and risk.
The last day of September
Summer’s waxed and waned away
Yet with warmth still here around me
Autumn’s yet to have its say
There’s still time for shorts and t-shirts
and for sitting in the sun
for though the days are shorter
cooler times have yet to come
So, as a child of summer
Autumn days can bide their time
For I’m still happy in the sun
whilst it stays warm and fine
House empty, I’m in
the pilot light, an eye unblunk in the stove
that yawns, I remember,
the delicious and burnt feasts I cooked here
wearing only my drawers, small breasts
pulled down by gravity, water spurts that slashed
and sizzled nude skin, split carrots
that thundered in the quiet, in the dead of night
I’d cut chives, brew saffron,
steam would dry out my eyes I recall
Against the blue the old Town Hall
with yellow ochre walls
Declares aloud his history
from ageing hallowed halls
In Brighton now amidst the new
it stands aloof to change
Whilst all around the architects
make plans to rearrange
