Unflaming June

Another morning
waiting for the weather to be coloured in .

Wanting to hang washing out

It has to end somewhere, of course

but how annoying that the distant blue

to south and west

has stayed just as far away all day

and the part-blanket of cloud remained.

On opening the curtains

Not so much a careful observation

more a panic, thinking sky the colour of a putty rubber

meant someone had rubbed out the blue.
...

and later

something about hydrangeas –

frou-frou faded pinkness and a suggestion of talcum corsetry –

reminds me of my paternal grandmother.

From my window

Still as death, and sky the colour of a shroud - how can one be inspired to write under such circumstances?

Just after I'd hung the washing out

Hailstones leaping from the shed roof
like lemmings from a cliff

For those who don't have to go to out work

Thick toast crunching from the road beside the house
(where the sun never gets to shine, this month)
is good enough advice to stay in bed.

On my way to buy a morning paper #4

Pink neon reflected on the fish and chip shop tiles,

and again across the puddled tarmac of the car park,

a fractured, trailing Isadora Duncan chiffon scarf.

Although not cold enough

My slightly blurred reflection in the darkness of the double glazing,

the blackness of the frantic trees against the pewter sky,

gloomily presage November.

Deceived, deceiving

Winter ice blue sky confirmed by early morning freshness –

and yet it IS still August