Three Days Poem by Jacqui Thewless

On September 1, we lay in the sun, she polishing
her smooth milk chocolate tan;
on September 2, sharp coolness arrives -
the same cloudless heaven now dimples my skin.

Remembering iron, rust leaves mass
where my feet brushed, lately, the precious few last
young buttercups, daisies in dry grass on Monday –
but apples are weighting the tree’s branches down.

Seeds, burrs cling to my clothes.

Then, my grandson’s birthday, I’m all afternoon
cake-baking and making his favourite icing
stick to its sides. The offering for tea’s a plate
of savoury: paella.

He’s fifteen.

By September 3, all tourists have gone.
We keep the Pembroke morning rains
for ourselves; fine, soft, grey as herons,
falling fast,

like summer.