It's nearly midsummer's night
sunset's long fingers grasp
late embers of evening light.
Today was a rare kind of day,
not too warm, not too cold—
a gentle cooling breeze wafting.
Maintaining. Keeping it just right.
Butterflies skittered and bowled,
fluttering over the garden wall.
The apple trees bobbed their arms
bedecked with bushels of fruit,
the eaters already blushing red,
the cookers crunchy, crisp, green.
Blossoms fill the air with perfume—
jasmine, clematis and fuchsias.
Violas hang on, as do the aubretia
and campanula. The roses and
peonies didn't survive the storms
and neither did the purple petunias
wanly withering in hanging baskets.
The herb bed attracts the industry
of busy bees abuzz among buds—
lavender, thyme and rosemary—
all growing well despite the ever
encroaching mint that tries to
outcompete them, the plant I was
so worried for that I saved a sprig
in a separate pot, and now it
overflows the sides much as its
parent takes over the herb patch.
Tonight the sky was covered in high
wispy clouds and like spidery strands
sparkling against the deep clear blue.
Towards the western horizon thicker
creamy sheep's wool swathes formed.
As the sun sank lower the cloud edges
shimmered like a prism as sun beams
passed, a rainbow forming without rain.
Last light was filled with goldfinch flight.
Emily writes mainly prose-type poetry and some flash fiction. Originally from Northern Ireland she's lived in England for many years, currently in the Midlands. She writes about what she sees out walking, a mix of observations about nature and society. A self-taught writer, she has featured in a number of publications since 2022.
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