Honeysuckle Summer

I am

cutting the grass

churning up daisies,

leaving  pink tinged petals strewn,

mowing out the beat of Bob Marley

blasting across the fences.

And the laughing student boys

exams over or not,

clink their beer cans,

 BBQ smoke wafting.

Careless summer comes 

this afternoon

for them.

I plant a hanging basket

with sunset begonias trailing,

sparse in their new high home

above ground

by the yellow front door.

I dig up buttercups

in the shade of the honeysuckle hedge

pumping out its sweet peppery perfume

as if there was nothing else

to do

with all the time in the world 

to unfurl its rose to gold

crown of horns.

When my skin is sunburn tight

I leave the green garden

and melt dark brown sugar

and a block of butter

on the hob,

and whisk in a fur of lemon zest,

a long froth of eggs

a snow shower of flour,

and bake a cake.

To share with friends

tonight.

To stem the shadow brush

of sadness

that has followed me

all day

in and out of the

sunlight.