by Denis Mackail

Caught in the doldrums of August
we may have regretted
the departing summer,
having sighed over
the vanished strawberries
and all that they signified.

Now,
however,
we look forward almost eagerly
to winter's approach.
We forget the fogs,
the slush,
the sore throats,
and the price of coal.

We think only
of long evenings by lamplight,
of the books
which we are really going to read this time,
of the bright shop windows
and the keen edge of the early frosts.
 
 
 
 


As featured on
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Words inspired by the garden are the sweetest, most beautiful words of all.
Denis Mackail
Denis Mackail