From: John Owen, Ninfield Road, Bexhill
A Perfect Summer Day:
Water meadow weeds on a warm summer day.
Hiding in a hollow log sitting at its end, a big, bulbous, bullfrog, in the dappled shade.
Waiting for the dancing damsel-fly hovering near-by, in a bright blue, Summer sky.
A predatory pike with pointed teeth.
Swam idly by with sons, and daughters.
Languishing in the shallow waters, the pike caught sight of a ducklings legs, and dragged it under.
Up on the bank, the picnic, party played.
The whack on willow: Paul had bowled a maiden over.
It ended in a patch of clover.
As the leather ball bounced for cover.
“It’s time for tea,” shouted mother.
Sitting on the tartan rug, her rosy cheeks inflamed with heat.
She made a move and regained her feet.
A wicker-basket filled with food, the laughing children in a jolly mood, made short work of the provisions, after many, heated, indecisions.
Cucumber sandwiches with cut off crusts, pork pies and sausage rolls.
Bloater paste and cheddar cheese, all designed to fill and please.
A busy bee, though not invited, alighted on a piece of pie.
Replete and resting, under the willow tree, and on the count of three, they all began to sing a serenade, and washed it down with large amounts of home-made lemonade.
In the distance a church bell chimed.
“Time to go,” mother said, eating the last slice of buttered bread.
Suzy climbed inside the car and started up the engine.
Seventeen and full of grace, she started off at an alarming pace.
“Slow down or you will kill us all, we can’t go now we are missing Paul.
“He was last seen down by the waterfall.”
Full of fear and looking back, mother saw him on the track.
Running fast and out of breath he finally caught up with the rest.
Quite descended on the deserted field.
The bent and battered blades of grass, in their last dying gasp, fought to find their inner strength and gain an upright stance at last.
In the last light of the setting sun, no more time for fun, the frog rapidly extended its sticky tongue, and grabbed the dying crane fly.
With one swift move the pike pounced, and sank its pointed teeth, into the bulbous, flabby flesh, of the bloated bullfrog.
Death and nature, not far away, on a perfect, summer’s, day.
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