a hot, still July afternoon
silence unbroken.

through a cordon of dusty nettles
you plunge into a rank glade,
wicked with the scent of elder
and warm, ripe grass

heavy with anticipation of something not quite definable

it is high summer, just on the turn
as the last red campion falls to usurping rosebay
and autumn, though still distant,
slips into consciousness in the early yellowed leaf.

light fails noticeably earlier now
and as the stars fade in
and glowing planets begin their slow circling of the sky,
anticipation is irrelevant: at the moonrise hour
the memory goes back, instead,
down the long, long years.

seconds, minutes, hours, days,
weeks, months, seasons, years — 
how could the waxing and waning, rising and setting
moon
have tricked you? led you so gently
and seductively down the riverbank of time,
waltzed you down the dear time of your kife,
brought you with a bump
to the wasteland of the present.

far, far away now the sweet days
of rank, high summer and scented autumn
children singing, soft snowed Chistmas
and sap-rising spring;

long gone the golden rod,
buckets full of michaelmas daisies,
the muffled creak of a footfall on new snow,
sharp winter mornings ,
blackbirds singing to blustery March

snd the soft-shoed man in the moon
who slipped away, treacherously and quite unperceived,
for ever.

Written on 19 July, 1983 by Chris Proudfoot 1951–2022

Chris was my friend and fellow scribbler for over 50 years. I am trying to gather together his remaining poems and hope to publish a slim volume of his verse sometime in 2024. I hope this poem whets your appetite for more.