The switched-off month, all disconnect and drift.
The paper-boyís away; The Guardianís 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?
Youíll never find a plumber to attend.
Slugs raid the lettuces and squirrels eat
your longed-for raspberries; the beans donít set.
Youíre vigilant - but still you canít 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 canít last for ever, nights will cool,
and all goes back to normal in September.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, D.A. Prince would
be pleased to hear them.