This year the weather changed with rain
and cold in the North, hints of autumn.
When our children were small, we always held a party
when August began. Each wore a crown.
The barley fields wave theirs in a golden sea.
Farmers will begin to gather the grain.
My mother took us bilberrying up on the moors.
A whole wild day scrambling through heather.
Special sandwiches and pop.
photograph and poem Rose Cook
poem from Sightings available http://www.greyhenpress.com