British Summer Time

There is new life
in the old garden
There are pretty specks of colour
blooming brightly from the ground
The middle-air is weightless
blowing freely through the lane
Summer fields fold out
through wooden window-frames
Freshly cut grass glides lazily
down molten tarmac roads

There is new life
In the old garden
A cigarette, a teddy-bear
starched laundry on the line
The meadow beyond the fence
birds resting on wires
Peeling paint turns to dust
on frames, on gates, and benches
white spirits in jars warming in the sun
on the worktop in the shed

There is new life
In the old garden
Luscious greens and winding blues
yellows so intense they’re blinding
stretching out endless and golden
from the stream, to that horizon
Soon old friends will come and smile
brimming with new conversation
and bonfires, water fights, and warmth
so effortless, so pretty

There is new life
In the old garden
A stalking cat, a knowing butterfly
the dance of smoke from a fire
a glass of wine, a scent of fruit
the pouring out of hearts so full
The apple tree, the water-hose
and running through the weeds
These scenes imprinting their memories
on every sense
five times remembered…


Thanks for reading this very old poem.

Image: Summer Garden Painting

Published by

Tom Alexander

"Art is a lie that tells the truth"

4 thoughts on “British Summer Time”

  1. I enjoyed this, it creates a lot of imagery, from reading this and your others I can see how your style has changed. I don’t think sharing your older poetry is bad thing, although I am too ashamed to share my first, having seen this though I feel more inclined to. The question is should I, or should I not?

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thanks Hannah. I do cringe at some of the older ones and don’t share many of them – but every now and again it’s interesting to revisit them and see how people respond. I always try to slot them in between others I feel more confident about – a ‘shit sandwich’ if you will 🙂 I’d say go for it.

      Liked by 2 people

    1. 🙂 I like that Peter. If I were you, I’d have then stolen this mental-rewriting and turned it into my own poem. Misheard lyrics or mis-read Tweets are often a source of inspiration for me.

      Liked by 1 person

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