Forward: This is one of a few poems I wrote about 30 years ago, when in my mid teens, copies of which were found today. Of course these were very early attempts of mine at writing poetry (so please bear this in mind 🙂 ). I then did not write until 2018, when I started writing poems again and publishing on my blog and on social media platforms.
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The very colour of the sand, the bugs, their bites, their stings,
the summer breeze, the wafting, warm and salty, bright blue air,
the sailboards still as water skaters casting merry rings,
and sandy feet with bright pink toes and smiles without a care,
and dainty toes which probe along a ferny sun-baked path,
the painted, heeling yachts which drift like ghosts upon the tides,
and merry, thin, warm voices drifting o’er the water laugh.
The back massaging sun which shivers down wet swimmers’ sides,
a swim, a towel, the sun, a sneeze, an ice cream please,
then walk in shorts, shirt, shoes, no socks, through scented plants, dust, bees.
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Oh Summer kind do you not sit beside the sun and spy
the smallest ant which marches up a saw-toothed blade of grass,
steam engine cows which chug away, a butterfly,
a shady copse, a dead bird ruffled in the wind to pass
away a wondering melody, dispersed her song with time;
the wind flows down the sloping fields and beams upon the life,
and wind tossed grass now blushes in return a secret mime,
whose rhythms join the tune beneath the sinking sun, whose strife
against the thirsty west is drunk away. The rabbits still,
with peaceful eyes, do hear the verse which puffs with gentle chill.
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The summer light shines bright on shimmering sea and castle walls
which once were shrouded in the winter mist, were hardly there,
but come alive, reveal their splendour, myths of fighting, balls;
and magic dances in the scorching air and everywhere.
It thrills in tourists’ hearts who walk by shady holly trees,
and peer inside cathedrals great, museums cool, and through
the locals, knowing every bush, and calm, and stormy seas.
The eye of heaven burns down from the everlasting blue,
upon a thousand towns with outdoor cafe seats, high rooves,
a million people talking, and the clattering horse hooves.
Nicholas Rowe Poetry 