August

The switched-off month, all disconnect and drift.
The paper-boy’s away; The Guardian’s late.
No hope of breakfast crossword or the swift
demolishing of the sudoku. Fate
says phones will go unanswered, emails too,
till holidays have staggered to their end.
The dripping tap, the newly-leaking loo?
You’ll never find a plumber to attend.

Slugs raid the lettuces and squirrels eat
your longed-for raspberries; the beans don’t set.
You’re vigilant -  but still you can’t defeat
the marrow-wish intent of each courgette.
When are the children going back to school?
The time is out of joint  -  then you remember
August can’t last for ever, nights will cool,
and all goes back to normal in September.

D.A. Prince

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  D.A. Prince  would be pleased to hear them.