My September
I sit on the cold damp timber wall which was once a railway sleeper.
Eyes are closed shutting out the sharp sun rays. The sun is peaking behind the
overgrown conifer that I hide behind; mulling things over. The garden is tidied
to a point; growing wildflower. A garden as nature intended. The summer sun has not left; still burning my
arm.
Weeds raise high above the raggedy grass.
Football is no longer played here. A few raindrops hit my head. Birds twitter
to each other through the branches of the oak trees behind me. Wood pigeons
annoy me with their droning calling. I remember husband threatens to shoot them
down; like he did with his air pistol when he was a young lad; bravado boys
talk.
*
Through the dirty cobwebbed glass I see a vibrant yellow butterfly. My
hands burn as I still run them under the hot tap. Day dreaming as preferred, not
watching or feeling the scorch today. A
flash of fluttering iridescent wings catches my eye. I think dreamily that it
is like the sparklers in your eyes before a migraine. An aura of beauty
precedes blinding pain. A large dragonfly beautifully elongated swoops across
the abandoned next door neighbour's garden. It is free falling in the wildflower
meadow where it belongs until the end of its day.
***
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