Here is the second poem from the ‘Four Season Quartet’.

Finding Summer

No single swallow for me,
I want a full flock.
Ones and twos belong to Spring,
hawking the river until their family arrive.
Tell them not to be late,
there is a landmark date,
from which the year recedes.
The longest day, the shortest night,
is very soon, only June.
Be swift (aptly named, allow six weeks)
already the shadows lengthen.
Enjoy the sunny days and balmy nights
but remember, the English Summer is fleeting. 

“What a beautiful day.” So still.
No breeze to stir the sails of yachts
or scuttle fair-weather cloud across azure skies.
“Too hot for me.” Stretch out, enjoy the warmth
before the weather breaks, midsummer.
“Top up?” Bit tipsy. Mustn't roll over as I raise my glass.
Beware the edge: a fall to the rocks below
ends without cushion, jagged in a toothy mouth.
“How quiet the seagulls are,” floating within touching distance,
at our height. A fly-past. No bird will break the silence.
“Hide that sandwich.” Must be a hundred gulls,
by their proper place, open water.
We all came here for lunch, high above a favourite bay:
I nibble and sip, but their bellies are fat,
fed on fish not litter. Natural. No rooftop nests for them.
Charlie wags his tail and leans forward for a better look.
“Sheer drop down there, boy.”
Goodness, my head is swimming.
Look away. Resist the call of the sea.

So, tell me about the water, father,
why is it that nobody swam?
I can’t, that would be unlucky daughter,
it’s a fisherman I be, I am, I am.
Shouldn’t you have kept to dry land, father,
if you’re so afraid of the sea?
No, my dear, it’s in the blood,
our fate is given, not free. 

The beach in Summer with its drifting dunes
has no defence against invasion.
It’s not much fun holding back the hordes
but it’s the holiday season.
Buff up the sand, it must impress
make those crystals glisten and shine.
But look out, there’s glass about
and fishermen’s hooks can bite.
Great big barbs, cut your toes in halves,
plus jellyfish, bigger than dustbin lids.
Bloody hell! They gobble up cars. 

Something’s stirring in the dunes:
pricking, stabbing, rustling, trapping.
Spot that snail squirm, spiked.
Defenceless, eh? I’ll see about that,
I’m a sea-holly and I’m far from jolly.
If you come up here without any fear,
I’ll wallop you and pinch your lolly.

How can a huge expanse of beach be claustrophobic
or its tangy fresh air suffocating?
When it’s crowded on an August bank holiday Monday.
Take to the hills, instinct tells me. Escape.
It may be lonely up there,
but saves drowning in a sea of strangers. 

The path is steep. Focus on the stony ground below you.
No sideways glances. The view must wait. Anticipate.
Prepare to savour the summit.

 High up by the beacon on the moor,
see the heather, granite capped and ocean ringed.
This land is huge, three buzzards circling.
Freedom. Learn to fly sweet soul.
No more feet of clay,
go barefoot now.
Free of ties.
Catch the slipstream,
feel the warm air rising.
It could be you, finding Summer.