January The grass is a sea of frozen ripples. On crackling twigs, old berries are Misbehaves, as it will. | July Yellow passes from oilseed to grass. Where are the flowers of spring? Birds steal our best cherries And mice our strawberries. Roses cheer our souls, show, with Bright, varied petals above thorns, That love lights our lives, And when each dies, Another takes its place. August Holidays are here. Roads choke with caravans, Westward marching. Our fields fill with white cages, And families pray for rain to end. Captive, they tear at Each other’s throats, Play mindless games, Read bad books but Infuse Dorset With their cash. September The apple rain begins. So many from so few trees. Winds swept fruit falls, Uncontrolled carpet For the lawn. “No more apples!” But later we’re grateful For the all-purpose apple that Keeps us healthy through Winter and spring. October The world can’t decide What we should wear. Summer’s undress or Winter’s cloak. One day we swelter, Shiver the next, And light fires. The air’s freshness Brings new smells. Rain regreens our trees. November First frosts are welcome, Putting paid to remaining Infuriating insects. Wasp nests die down, Queens are hid, Ready for next year’s assault. Mud and gum boots reappear, Trainers and sandals stashed. Howling wind strips Last leaves and apples. Views reappear. December The first white morning; Distant fields move near. Eerie night-time blueness Creates midnight sun For these shortest days. Despite the cold, Season’s cheer Penetrates all but the Grumpiest of skins. At month’s end, we welcome The year, regretting the last’s Speedy demise. |
Poetry for adults >