Mr. August, the mature man with shining golden hair the color of a ripe cornfield,
He is slightly graying at the temples but his eyes are clear pools of deepest blue,
There are hard lines in his face, they are deep, he's strong it's part of who he is
He stands and looks around him heavy hands on his hips a tall man of rural beauty,
His serene presence hints of much wisdom a good age make his company so delightful,
Casting his eyes as far as can be seen he smiles because all is right for this time,
The rich soils are dry and pillows of clouds wisp across light blue turquoise skies,
The dark greenness of the fields, the meadows and the pastures are strong and sweet.
He watches cattle grazing on the richest grasses and they low because they are well,
The day warms and the cows lay easy, chewing cud a sight worthy of a painter’s hand,
Warm breezes temper the sun as a second spring is flowing through the healthy trees,
He nods to the mighty oak the king of the woods and forests and the trees wave back.
His eyes catch heather on the moors and the dust devils on the heath's new flowers,
They are all there in fine form, dog roses, blue chicory, hawk weed and honeysuckle,
And as he stands nearer he breathes sweet perfumes from his August summer gardens,
Looking to his glades knee deep in grass the blue campanula dances a flowers dance.
Nuts growing fast they are fat and green they hang in the tall hedges and woodlands,
There are more nuts in trees along old woodland lanes and deep in the dark forests,
He salutes the fading roses and kneels down to thank them they have done their duty,
Then waves goodbye to the foxglove with a warm smile and thanks her with a blown kiss.
Did the Foxglove blush, just a little?
Copyright © Terry Trainor