Poem #2,840 | Pub Garden – Barcombe

This pub is where we piled kids
& negotiated with frantic wasps
as dripped ice creams loosened
& beer warmed – All is quiet now
[with only birdsong & tree-blows
to offer interference] – At 10,000
feet a jet ploughs a line of theory
about control -I have none & am
enjoying a roll of time alone – As
our malicious sun sinks gods cut
out kisses of heat – September’s
confusion of weather nudges me
about layers – one less gardener