Sunday, August 31, 2014

An end of August poem by Margaret Atwood

Late August

This is the plum season, the nights
blue and distended, the moon
hazed, this is the season of peaches

with their lush lobed bulbs
that glow in the dusk, apples
that drop and rot
sweetly, their brown skins veined as glands

No more the shrill voices
that cried Need Need
from the cold pond, bladed and urgent as new grass

Now it is the crickets
that say Ripe Ripe
slurred in the darkness, while the plums

dripping on the lawn outside
our window, burst
with a sound like thick syrup
muffled and slow

The air is still
warm, flesh moves over
flesh, there is no



  1. Simply Beautiful.

    Yogi's Mom

  2. Perfect words for the last day of August. As you know, it's "Labor Day Weekend" for us, a bittersweet time of year and there's a melancholy feel in the air right now. Summer is coming to an end.

  3. Beautiful imagery.
    Everything is scorched here after months of relentless heat.

  4. Interesting End of August it is hurricane season, and thus far we have been spared the wrath of a hurricane....we still have a few more weeks to go until the end of the season.
    We have lots of local fruits ripening on the least the ones that the monkeys and birds have left alone.