Summer Days

Babbling, Sabbath afternoon,
Crazy wasps wrestling the breeze,
Mother's peeling back eye lids to search for pesky flies,
The warm milk swilling a wink as the early crocus dies.

Toy poodle boys thrashing the relaxed pond with sprints,
Diving at the blind depths from jagged, platform rocks,
Washed in mammoth fall that endless water weeps,
The mossy emerald velvet locks.

Come the fringe of circus day when sulks the fading sun to half,
Patios swept of paper plates and menthol cigarette filter tips,
Sister's gone to steal strawbs from the fridge, and heavenly junket,
Still to set, that wicked child, she sips.

As the rotting potting shed stretches deep its earthly shadow,
And the coiled dog lies resting in his master's chair,
The blood-blister serenade of mewling toms and happy queens,
Twist cork screws in the evening air.

Fully pumped, the Jack Russell jumps, then scrats, then sniffs
At the crease of light sifting through the basement door,
While the wireless yawns some old, jazz tune,
By the light of Able's Hardware Store.