Strawberry Season

Delicate skin is pinched to pink,

Eyes and nose refuse not to itch.

The sweet sense of endless time –

Sun not setting ‘til half past nine.

Life swells beyond your door,

Buds burst, green sweeps the floor.

There are jobs to do for the first time this year:

Lawns to mow, bird songs to hear.

You exist outside as much as you can –

What’s the point if you don’t get a tan?

At least catch the sky while it’s blue and clear,

Sit on a scratchy bench with a Pimms or a beer.

These little rituals we do each year…

Because we all know this is fleeting,

And strawberry season is only a greeting –

Summer’s hello before its end,

A reminder to savour each second we spend.

Words by Amy Sinclair

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