Under Hogan's Willow

Two women were talking in the shop the other day.

"Sure won't belong now till the races"
"That's right races and then the summers over"
"Right you are. Races, then ready for school, school opens and the shops have the Christmas stuff out"
"Agh now"
"It's true, I'm tellen' ya. Went to the shops last year for the Halloween gear,which they had of course; the very next row was lined with the tree decorations."
"Ah, go on"
"Honest to God"
"Sickening!"
"That it is"

There you have it, already they're talking about Christmas and it's not even July.

Here's an end of summer/autumn poem:

Under Hogan’s Willow

The lover’s cheeks
puff syllables
of loyalty pure,
bleached;

b’neath the shaded eave
of Hogan’s willow,

before the kissing ends
and the flailing of arms
the maiming of promises
begin.



Theresa Daly