© Steve Dowson

Summer’s End

All day there’s been a warning in the skies.

Now, with evening’s gloom too soon arrived,

a swell rolls past the headland, past the ferry quay,

and lifts each anchored boat to test its weight and size.

The east wind, shrouded in a cloak of sighs,

curls through the village alleys, along the harbourside,

to billow awnings, worry heaps of unswept sand,

breathe cool air across sun-tempered thighs.

You and I, pretending – though all the signs say otherwise –

that summer lingers still with us, sit with cocktails at the waterside.

But now, beneath our feet, the pontoons start to shift and rise,

and we are made to realise we are not on firm ground.

Summer is over.  Autumn has arrived.

© Peter Clark

A Play On Words

When I first noticed you, walking away
Into a bright new day, beneath this veneer
It was startlingly clear that I had no idea how
To intervene, interject or interfere
With your plan to just gradually disappear
Into back lanes which lead to the river.
Should I shout down the street, throw myself
At your feet, or just increase my pace,
Overtake you and say to your face “Fancy 
Meeting you here!” And then we could steer
Our way through the crowds, to where words are allowed
To be honest and frank and forgiven.
Or shall I hang back, form a plan of attack
And continue to track your slow progress?
I could speak and confess, but lack of success would
Disturb, perturb and reverberate through
The part of my brain where there would still remain
A space with your shape growing dimmer.

© Peter Sutton

From Piers Plowman by William Langland

One summer season when the sun was still soft,

I set off like a sheep in a shaggy woollen smock,

The unholy habit of a wandering hermit,

And went seeking wonders in the wide, wide world.

And one morning in May on the Malvern Hills

I witnessed a wonder which I warrant was magic. 

Quite weary with walking I wanted to rest

On a broad grassy bank beside a small brook.

As I lay down I leant and looked in the water,

Which babbled so sweetly I soon fell asleep.

And sleeping I saw the strangest of dreams:

That I wandered a wilderness, not knowing where,

And high in the east, looking up at the sun,

Saw a tower on a toft, built sturdy and true;

To the west, further down, were a dale and a dungeon

With deep, dark ditches that I gazed on with dread.

Translation © 2014 Peter Sutton