Two Summer Poems

That summer

we didn’t stop running, arms and legs
always bent, chasing hills and clouds,
baked ground barely touching feet.

Pushed by the sun’s hot palms,
we startled air, rippled in its heat,
as trees streaked past, indistinct.

These days, I run to fill
a growing distance,
to reset a mistimed heart;

no way back to us –
our mirage shrinks, falls on its knees,
scuffing skin on the dusty path.

Karen Dennison


From my window

Idle summer basks on tidy cars, parked
parallel to rows of regimented marigolds
bordering stripe-mown lawns. Dutifully
fed and watered, these patches of suburbia
boast weed-free perfection where no one
sits or plays. Then there are the rebels,
who’ve turned their backs on the Englishness
of turf, laid Yorkshire slabs, planted garish
begonias, petunias trailing from cracked
terracotta. Or worse, the house at the corner,
its plot run wild, whose dandelion seeds
threaten to invade the cul-de-sac. Neglected
lavender hedging has survived another winter
to launch unruly purple into buzzing summer

Margaret Beston

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