Come to the garden surrounded
The oaks are dark with pleasure of the sun,
The fullness of its yielding has begun.
The air is sweet with the smell of sweetpeas
And fruit boughs bending with work of the bees
And beanpole pyramids lean, overfreighted
With fine purple pods. Beneath their serrated,
Prickled leaves, the cucurbits sprawl at ease,
Which swell in a week to immensities.
Crowns of the earlies are yellow and done,
The fat little gems of their spuds are spun.
May suasive phrases of an August breeze,
Conjuring sights and scents, the senses mated,
Murmur you rumours of how you’re awaited.