On September 1, we lay in the sun, she polishing
her smooth milk chocolate tan;
on September 2, sharp coolness arrives -
the same cloudless heaven now dimples my skin.
Remembering iron, rust leaves mass
where my feet brushed, lately, the precious few last
young buttercups, daisies in dry grass on Monday –
but apples are weighting the tree’s branches down.
Seeds, burrs cling to my clothes.
Then, my grandson’s birthday, I’m all afternoon
cake-baking and making his favourite icing
stick to its sides. The offering for tea’s a plate
of savoury: paella.
He’s fifteen.
By September 3, all tourists have gone.
We keep the Pembroke morning rains
for ourselves; fine, soft, grey as herons,
falling fast,
like summer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem