July Soliloquy Poem by Martin Ward

As I view ripening cornfields
and beyond, to new-mown hay,
my inner voice begins
a July soliloquy.

Beckoned by sunshine,
this temptress of a summer's day,
calls me, as if a child,
to come out and play.

The longest day has gone,
but still the sun beats down;
merging days into one,
without fear or frown.

Joyful hope that is July:
no sense of melancholy yet,
although my circadian clock
ticks towards future regret,

where autumn ripens loveliness
formed in spring and summer.
Of winter's bitter regress;
dark season's forerunner.

I should banish such thoughts:
revel in these golden days,
as there is naught but beauty,
when summer holds sway.

Am I too old to dream
beneath cotton wool skies,
or lay myself on green
and gently close my eyes,

to smell scent of mowing
or a drift of fragrant rose
upon the gentle zephyr breeze
that brings that pleasure close?

June drop is falling still -
apple trees are bombing
oxeye daisies and cranesbill
with semi-cruel aplomb.

July (with a sigh) : seventh month of the year,
when flowers and my soliloquy appears.