Roman Style

The scythe's discarded blade with its gap tooth
rusts on the veranda. Spring's flowers
are levelled, the field lies bare

to contours the swallows shave unerringly.
Our feeling's of summer no sooner come
than gone, but I never cease marvelling

about the seasons here, how harvest's
but a prelude to Julho and Agosto,
Roman inserted months, when the sun

scours like a blow torch, and our resort's
once more to our well-spring. It's not
what we are at heart feels different,

perhaps a little heavier, somewhat
slower to the beach ball, while judges,
presidents, even golfers, are ever younger,

and no TV adverts target us in their mooning
mock-Hollywood, thank god, for jeans
or face creams or exercise contraptions

as friends are crossing into the dark,
and it touches family ever closer. So,
the hatch sealed, we've sized up the well

with a pump buoy, and regale nightly
all we've planted with more than ever
loving and lavish draughts, hoping

Roman-fashion insure against
something when the scythe rounds
on its owner and the plot lies bare.

Copyright © 2003 Landeg White All rights reserved
from Where the Angolans Are Playing Football
Parthian Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission