Summer Inspirations - Part 3

Cornish Caves

The warmth of the sun

Teasing the aroma of freshly

Mown garden lawns from the

Timeless whitewashed weather worn cottages.

A lofted cliffside promontory overlooking

A sweeping, Cornish pasty coloured beach

Reached down history's steps - centuries-smoothed.

Bays and coves and locally guarded-secret inlets.

Standing at the entrance of a low-tide cave;

Listening to the approaching waves

And the voices and echoes of

Those who once stood here too.

Family and friends returning

In pleasant waves

They are here.

We hear them.

Still.

Inspired by

Peter Young

Summer Stays

The wind evening-whips the

Last of the beach-walkers,

Sand and grit decorating lips

And the sea-spray leaving briny white

Streaks across faces, children with

Salt and pepper eyebrows and panda eyes

Ringed with the sea and sun.

The sun sinks now, hurried by

An impatient full moon waiting faintly

In the fading skylight.

It feels as if the sun leaves too early,

Or maybe childhood memories

Stretch the summer

Far beyond imagination.

Does the sun age? It seemed so much

More youthful then, playing with the

Seaside children and staying out all

Summer long, barely dipping to a horizon

Rest, before peeking its head long before

The early dog walkers and kite surfers and

Sand joggers and yoga stretchers and Zen meditators had ensconced themselves on the dawn sand.

But now the sun gives a cursory glance,

A chilly hello, and summer shrugs its cold shoulder and looks towards an early autumn.

A climate, an atmosphere that

Has definitely changed.

Inspired by

Claire Mould

A Summer Place

Old Father Time

Checks his watch

Scans the wicket

5 minutes before 11 O'clock

Ring the bell at Lords

Announce the start of play

The Umpires lead out the teams

The Test Match starts today

It's 1991, Gooch and Atherton

Standing poised at the wicket

Sir Curtly Elconn Lynwall Ambrose

- Right arm over,

- Ridiculously fast

- 90 mile an hour bouncers

- That menacing smile

Summer starts now,

Let's play cricket 🏏

Inspired by

Keith Crossland

The Summer Garden

The garden is in full bloom.

Aromatic, evocative, redolent

Of summers past -

Where the first strawberries

Ripen in the June sunshine,

Decorating the tongue

With ever-sweet memories.

We toast the sun, raising

A glass to the past and

To the now, blessed in

The blissful tranquility

Of flowers and birdsong,

Of bee hum and the gentle

Chatter and play of grandchildren.

Setting up the tent, for happy

Evenings spent in the company

Of family. A holiday at home,

The only time I'll pitch the tent

This year.

The garden.

A sanctuary and a retreat

For wearied bodies and aching feet.

The summer walkers parched and

In need of something invigorating to

Imbibe and while away the

Drawn out evenings under a

Capacious sky, as the sun

Cools its ire, the fire of the day

Extinguished in a golden sunset.

Yet, to some this inertia, this - stop - is

A longueur, a tedium, a wastefulness

Of the moment, the day, the evening.

Not so. Every second is fulfillment.

Every moment is treasured.

The garden absorbs time and

Gifts peace and happiness.

A pleasure in the simplest

Of pleasures.

Inspired by

Andy Fincham River Flows and Pigeon Calls. River mist, Feigns to lift But not just yet The sun is having A lie in The Severn flows Barely discernable In the half light Of a peaceful Sunday morning Alone, just the Quiet cooing of The welcoming committee Of Worcester's Wood Pigeons Branches all along the banks The last blossoms Retain their scent that Mixes with the dew And the freshness of A river-ed dawn The Malverns sit, stoic At peace, awaiting the Summer warmth and Hordes of afternoon boots; Post lunch walkers A reminder of when We climbed Big Hilly Our gang of mates Racing to the top in minutes, Ah, you see Big Hilly was only a small hill. But when you are young Everything seems bigger More exciting and tangible. But now the kids have Nowhere to explore. The waste grounds And scrub lands The fields and meadows Bulldozed and house-built And tiny gardens where You don't hear the Wood Pigeons anymore. Inspired by David Wall

Insect and Fish Bites See the Mayfly On the Severn, Teme and Wye Streaks of silver sunlight Playing across the surface Carried by the eddies and ripples From the pouting trout mouths That break the surface, Sulking as the Mayfly outwits them, This time. From the morning banks Words are sparse, a whispered Hello to a fellow early riser A dog walker, a rambler An angler, a foot dangler in The still cold current, Summer rarely penetrates The river depths that retain Autumn-winter bite. Distant smoke rises in a sinuous Vertical plume, accompanied By faint crackles and wood-snaps A bit early for burning, Probably an early veg-plotter 'Bonfire of the Allotments.' Another hour watching the fish Watching - mocking - teasing - me, They're not stupid, But canny buggers It's far too light and bright And clear and the fly and bait Just waits and waits and there'll Be no bites today. The fish won't be had, just glad They can run and hide Bide their time And wait for the real flies, The Mayflies to settles Though these days Unlike the anglers All the insects Are in short supply Inspired by Simon Batten