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
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