Ryan Robson-Bluer


Now summer shuts its fist and sleeps again,

And different birds and waking, different songs

Sung; the ashes of this golden hour heap

But embers prickle, like stars not known dead. 


This ocean of a season, this firm tide,

Rushing and then breaking in white fractures

Against the rocks of autumn with a sigh

Of triumph, or of wistfulness dawning.


And the bubbling swash of sleepless nights

Rides on the morning, folding like linen.

The final burning sun sinks. As you stay

To while away the remnants, reminisce:


Those ever-tumbling waves on spotless sands -

A blessing, a gift, unsung as eyesight - 

And summer slips like honey down the throat,

Tasting sweeter and fonder in hindsight. 


  • Author: Ryan Robson-Bluer (Offline Offline)
  • Published: August 4th, 2022 12:02
  • Comment from author about the poem: How the summer just seems to slip away as a happy memory each year, like a conductor ending a symphony with a triumphant flick of his wrist and closing his fist.
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views:


  • jazzwa30

    love it summer feels so good then it leaves us good read

  • L. B. Mek

    wonderful imagery
    although we're still, desperate
    for the heatwave to break where I'm from
    a rather long and suffocating summer
    its been for some..
    thanks for sharing

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