SUMMER IT IS NOT

With just a few days left in this month I couldn't help but slip in this poem by Francis Ledwidge,even though the reality this year has been a really wet unseasonal month of June. Across the Irish Sea our near neighbours have had the wettest one since they started keeping records,and as the picture shows flooding has been swift and severe already claiming several lives.

JUNE

Broom out the floor now, lay the fender by,

And plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there,

And let the window down.

The butterfly Floats in upon the sunbeam,

and the fair Tanned face of June, the nomad gipsy, laughs

Above her widespread wares, the while she tells

The farmer's fortunes in the fields, and quaffs

The water from the spider-peopled wells.

The hedges are all drowned in green grass seas,

And bobbing poppies flare like Elmo's light,

While siren-like the pollen-stained beesDrone in the clover depths.

And up the height

The cuckoo's voice is hoarse and broke with joy.

And on the lowland crops the crows make raid,

Nor fear the clappers of the farmer's boy,

Who sleeps, like drunken Noah, in the shade.

And loop this red rose in that hazel ring

That snares your little ear, for June is short

And we must joy in it and dance and sing.

And from her bounty draw her rosy worth.

Ay! soon the swallows will be flying south,

The wind wheel north to gather in the snow,

Even the roses split on youth's red mouth

Will soon blow down the road all roses go.

Francis Ledwidge