Longest Poem by Paul Judges

The longest day
doesn’t feel much longer;
tomorrow’s glass misting
with breath of winter

yet summer
will go on idling
in stifling weeks,
before days splinter

into chilly autumn’s
waking veil;
November, a damp
and choking dog

but even then
some new love
might emerge
from thicker fog

The longest day,
a warbling flute
above the wild
uncut grass

it never fades,
this dream
of finding
the perfect lass

it never goes,
even as we take
the invisible,
darker way

it happens
always the same,
each measured year
each longest day