Spring to summer,

Spring to summer is a glass bubbling births 
of chalk stream baptism and wood fires warming 

slow motion, extending over silver stumbling stones 
stretching a dance through cobblestones, weaving

the trees with cats-eye star imprints; sarongs,

or in a beaded chain of Whitstable iced pearls.

In the melt of what is new and what is old
Dover nets fill with the cliffs and the fisher's soul.

As we sort wheat from chaff like the next farmer along,

Love always brings in a harvest more than golden auburn.

The history of labour and loving is as undocumented

as ever, except for the note-taker maker-shakers, there 
would be no history written for love’s unpaid labourers.

With the harvest lurks searching horizons 
for weather; clocks and vanes. Love rests 
in a bouquet fed to the deer. It resuscitates
in wildflower wild-fire colour hypnosis 
with no scent at all, and yet it blooms. Synesthetic 

Love is...always in the heartwood hay and leaves 

when seasons dictate work routines, just like

clockwork; twenty-four, seven.




25/07/20