I posted this sonnet on 21 June last year: as you’ll gather, honest Puck has been falling down on the job, and it’s distinctly un-Midsummer-ish here in Sussex this year, too! And to think the nights start drawing in again tomorrow…have a splendid weekend, one and all. N.
Or one long ecstatic moan.
A single cubic inch of open sky.
To tell me I’m in luck.
Gaudy jewels on pale skin.
Taking a first cut of my own.
Silage-making is under way at last in our corner of Sussex. Better late than never. N.