summer – Page 12 – don't confuse the narrator

melon yellow

I commented last week that there are very few flowers in the garden at the moment, but it would be wrong to say there were none at all.

Each morning, I dutifully water the patch of ornamental gourds I planted in an attempt to cover some of the chain link fence between us and the neighbours. And each day I am amazed at the size and colour of the flowers.

Since the flowers first appeared a couple of weeks ago, a line of poetry has been running through my head. I’m not sure whether it’s triggered by the suspicion that gourds and melons must be related, by the brightness of the flowers or by the similarity of the sounds of gourd and gaudy…
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St Swithin’s Day

St. Swithin’s day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain;
St. Swithin’s day if thou be fair
For forty days ’twill rain nae mair

Judging from the colour of the sky behind the apples, we’re in for a long hot summer.

Mind you, the (Spanish) Catholic santoral doesn’t seem to list the very English St Swithin, so perhaps it doesn’t count here.

Instead they tell me today is San Buenaventura, a saint known for his “simplicity, humility and charity”. Since he seems unlikely to provide the rain needed for apple christening, perhaps it’s just as well we fixed the tap in the orchard at the weekend.

summer wilderness

It’s July, the temperatures are in the forties (or the hundreds, if you prefer), school’s out, and the village population has doubled in the last week as families return to their rural properties for the summer months.
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coordination

As I understand it (confirmed from doing some reading on the Wildflowers-and-weeds website) lots of flowers such as thistles and dandelions are not really single flowers, but composite flower heads made up of many tiny individual florets.

moon magnetism

Is there a poet in the land
who can resist that moon, those stars,
who is not sitting, pen in hand
recounting how love leaves her scars?

[…]

Enraptured by the moon’s bright light,
I, too, am writing poems tonight.

(Well, I was, some 15 years ago, which is when those lines originated as part of a tetrameter sonnet with heavy end stopping and extraordinarily unimaginative rhymes. The worst thing about learning more about poetry is that I try and write fewer bad poems and end up just writing less.)