Porridge - Poem by Ian Bowen
There is a chill about Summer now;
I notice it more in the mornings
when I collect the wet milk bottles
from my September door.
Soon we will see
blizzards of leaves
revealing the nests of rooks
in skeleton trees.
New birds will arrive,
and old ones leave;
will shower to emerald.
The hoods of thicker coats
will be pulled up
by woollen fingers
or naked fists will dive into
will change to cool-mint winds.
I will notice it even more in the evenings,
when I place my empty milk bottles
at the foot of my cold-stone steps.
Leave a note for extra milk.
It's hot porridge time again.
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