July gives way to August,

and as it goes we are all giving way in this roundabout of life

where you’re supposed to yield to the right but most don’t know what that means

or pretend they don’t,

as it suits them.

And so the giving way is a kind of ongoing tension,

the loosening of control,

one season yielding to the next.

You can see it on the hillsides, a weave of green and brown.

Or in young Octavian refusing to follow orders from his uncle Julius,

to rinse the grapes

or cut the meat with his knife.

One day I’ll have my own month he snorts,

the better of the two…

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: poetry