Last Of The Summer Sky

A steep hill covered in ferns, a blue sky
There’s a geography of warmth - the land and water holding a summer range - there’s winter in the edge of the wind. We go walking where traffic from copper and tin once rolled. Old mines tumbled in, and a sort of emptiness ringing. Barb wire keeps us from the mined earth. Strange holes underneath, gored rock, and the steep hills are made of innards dug and dumped. I have a shiver of nostalgia for the people that braved this, a repulsion for the scarring. Above this lonely place is the last of the summer sky. Under foot wildflowers and grasses take hold, fat with sun, bold, healing. Water rushes out of sight, beyond the wire. Dragonflies are in the trees, in and out the willow leaves, they draw our amazement for skill and colour. Sun on skin. Ice in the breeze.
Blackberries weighty clumps - not too sweet, just right - stain fingers purple. Summer is bowing out, just right.

A country lane with grass growing over it, miles from anywhere


Harry Hamid said…
I'm looking forward to the first signs that summer is ending here. We're not there yet.

This is vivid.
My summer is bowing out, indeed. School starts tomorrow.
Lisa Southard said…
Hope you survive, Harry!
And thank you :-)
Lisa Southard said…
May it bow gracefully, and bring you nice new stationery :-)
Haha! Thanks. Finally getting a bit chillier, too.

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