August

By Gay Waters

The hot still sky is hushed in silent rest;
No voice of bird.
A fleecy whiteness wings away to west.
No leaf is stirred.
The poplar’s silver glistens in the burning light,
The meadow lands
Bathed in the still heat of a hot delight,
The hay-cart stands
On the white road waiting in the sun.
A straggling vine
Stretches across a dell where brown bees hum
And wet weeds shine,
A locust slips its shrill note in the air;
The beetles’ drone
Flecks the hushed stillness here and there
With lazy tone.

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