Tag Archives: Summer

The Moon is Misplaced

Wooden benches under white blossom trees,

a slimming world sign – newly hung,  over daffodils –

scattered and bent on a roadside bank.

Pavements  crawl with naked legs,

white dimpled hunks of flesh – oil slicked.

And the people –

the people are slow in motion.

Bicycles and  haircuts and pastel shorts

rip up the road in ribbons of rainbow

And through my sunglasses – I see sunglasses.

Heat stretches the benches –

slats  are filled with bums and thighs

and shiny magazine sheen,

and fallen adverts;

a spa springtime treat for £59 falls

under an old oak tree,

as old as the grey derelict hospital that stands

as still as stone. I smell horse dung.

And the farmers farm and the farm machinery,

and the cows – right before the greasy smell

of Thursday special – Sausage Supper for £2.50.

The horses reflect in the chippy window.

And on the horizon, the moon is misplaced.

While kids on scooters, scoot

around an immaculately groomed roundabout.

surrounded by wooden benches

under white blossom trees.

©Eilidh G Clark

Vitamin Glee

I am filled with vitamin D, with a pink
lemonade kiss and a fancy free
Candy floss smile.

It is a marvellous and menacing mischief
that had now pumped up my heart,
and a vitamin glee that I have swallowed.

Rays of sunbeams are hiding in my sweater
and my unshaven legs – prickling
with joy, how glorious to be shown the light.

I am shimmering and dancing in my pants,
and there is a party in my bed socks –
And they rock, because bed socks do that.

And if my eyes were as blue as the sky
-and they are as blue as the sky,
they would be lost, in disguise and forever.

“What is this poem you ask me muse?”
“What is its purpose?”
“The purpose my beautiful fairy-tale wife,

Is that summer came for a day,
Like sand in my toes and a three wheeler bike
It snapped its elastic on my bum cheek and cheered.”

©Eilidh G Clark

Dead Summer

The following poem was published in The Write Angle Magazine, please check out some of their work on Blogspot .

 

Sheets of amber mist sweep into the woods

and trees,  burst like fireworks

red, orange, yellow and green –

flames against a charcoal sketch of the Trossach’s;

A jaggy cardboard silhouette cut out of a 1950’s film set.

 

Leaves peel from  sodden branches and rock-

A leg and a wing, to see the king, and land beneath

The soles of my Wellington boots,

which mix  the mulchy bracken, into the earth –

a cold casserole of dead summer.

 

The hill is a graveyard.

Thistle corpses are crispy baskets filled with fur, saluting.

Bramble bushes cower like woven nets clutching

Sleeping life. And autumn,

shoots freezing jets into the humid air,

before they rest in basins, waiting.

 

I feel them rise and creep into my hair as I descend

into the valley.

 

My feet kick up a swirling cloud that hovers

over grass. Snapping twigs rudely interrupt

a tap dancing gull,

it hops sideways over a flattened mole hill

which is waving a barbecue Hula Hoop flag.

 

I pause

The ghost of summer wraps around my neck like a feather boa.

©Eilidh G Clark