Just as you have organised yourself
for winter (plum chutney simmered
until the whole house smells of ginger,
pale jade tomatoes picked and set
to ripen, cotton dresses packed away)
summerís back: bees nuzzle trumpets
of the last nicotiana until it quivers
like a bewigged judge shaking his head
and tutting at the seasonís disorder:
green puddles of nasturtium overflow
flowerbeds, pink snapdragons thrust
through paving slabs, dahlias swarm
high as the wall, their spirals of crimson
twirling in sequence: Fibonacci dancers.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Sharon Phillips would be
pleased to hear them.