London Summer

High summer.
Trees mob the garden
With a silent green shout,
A frozen explosion of leaves.
The grass lies flat on its back,
Exhausted and yellow,
And the newly-trimmed hedges
Are embarrassed at the shortness of their tonsure.

Now is the time of the fliers:
A gang of gnats lives in the air by the lilac tree,
Bouncing up and down in a continuous, pointless party;
Bees lumber among the flowers,
Solemnly getting on with the job;
Flies buzz chaotically
From one unspeakable meal to another,
And wasps loiter wickedly,
Looking for someone to bully.
Above them all, the swallows,
The brylcreem boys of summer,
Dine sumptuously on fast food
Amid their stylish aerobatics.
And at night, moths,
Skilled at entrances but hopeless at dignified exits,
Whirr against the windows.

Along the towpath,
The crowds sit outside the pubs,
With boiled, shiny faces and bare legs,
Garrulous in the soft air,
And across the river,
Each tree trails a plume of insects from its tip,
The filmy flags of summer
In the fading evening light.