Short Ballad Of The Swimmer / In An Old Inkwell

Alan:   Memories change in the remembering, and more in the telling.  Did this happen, all that time ago?  I’d say yes – but now I can’t be sure.

Short Ballad Of The Swimmer

The sea smiled blandly – calm, benign –

As I looked out on him –

Two arms arched flashing, quick and blind:

A ripple – then a skim –

And where he was, he was no more

Although the sea smiled on,

And no one else on sea or shore

Remarked that he was gone.

I listened to the white gull’s cries

And wondered if I’d seen

Someone vanish before my eyes

Or one who’d never been.

I watched until the last light flamed

And stars devoured the day,

Then turned and found one car unclaimed

As others filed away.

I had not thought of this strange sight

For thirty years or more,

But then his eyes met mine last night

A hundred yards from shore.

Nancy: Just a few – and then a few more – until every container is filled, every tabletop.  August is field flowers, garden flowers, all the seeded, self-seeded beauty of the summer calling out to me.

In An Old Inkwell

August, oh August

sweet drunken August

August of burning gold

it's already too late to turn away

more, it whispers, I have more

and you want it

that bliss of too much, but

just a sip, you say

just a sip

what harm could there be

in a few orange/red/gold flowers

in an old inkwell

as if you forget

that August always wins