June’s playground children came busting out all over,
Scattering fast food footprints on stately home clover.
June looked her finest when viewed from a distance,
It was not of her doing, just perspective’s insistence.
The pencil never lies, in June.
June tried her best to get here much sooner,
One foot in the past, no thought of the future.
June only wishes she could linger much longer,
But absence she knows makes all feeling much stronger.
Always far away, in June.
June saw me filming musicians in the park,
Editing videos long after dark.
June put me back on a gallery wall,
The last place to look for me, away from it all,
Painting ruins, in June.
June put out the empties in fortnightly rotation,
Brown plastic blooms for a recycled generation.
June was sometimes unsteady on my feet,
Discussions cut short, me accepting defeat.
It was always brown bin day in June.
June held conversations like gaps in a song,
When football chant tempos get the rhythm all wrong.
June left my words hung in spaces unheard,
Like Scrabble board spellings, the meanings absurd.
There were no squares for my letters, in June.
June paid her forfeits in games of few tactics,
Webcam connections and laptop screen antics.
June stretched out before me, summer splendid perfection,
A glow from the north, shining light inspiration.
Rain showers had no curtains, in June.
All text, pros, poetry, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
