Four O’ Clock

Four 0’ Clock


It’s four o’ clock. The sky’s so deep-dipped blue

That it appears deliberately to frame the view.

The tops of oak and ash are decked in green

That only in late summertime is seen;

A yellow-green, with messages to send

That say that Autumn’s waiting round the bend.

But, at this moment, they are clinging fast,

Wringing the sun, as long as it will last,

Until the air is bleached and leached and dry,

And there is no blue left to soak the sky.

Until that time, trees nestle in their frame,

And late montbretia set the ground to flame.

And still the cabbage whites, now aimless, fly,

Defying the old season’s soft ‘Goodbye’.


©Ruth Twyman Lockyer August 2013

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