Summer doesn’t come round again
Because no two summers are the same.
If you’re waiting for love to revisit
The parks and sofas and cars,
They’re gone – under concrete,
Crushed and melted down, landfill.
No, summer won’t come round again,
Look forward to the unborn,
Look backward to the long gone.
In winter, don’t wish your life away.
There will be another season
For you, there will be a new day.
The mile-high club is grounded.
Sand dunes on that beach are in tier four.
There are cobwebs in the public toilets.
(Mind you, there always were.)
The back row of the flicks is nixed.
Wake up little Susy, it’s over, we’re dead.
You can look at it one of two ways.
You can say there’s sodden paper
On the ground
Sunlight shines on one side
Of the weed-grown back lane
Behind the shopping parade.
A smell of paint thinner is in the breeze
And the corner of an outdated poster
On a gable billboard
Opens like a door.