William Wootten

The best time is the summer time When cow parsley is high, And daylight hours of field flowers Are spread beneath a sky That drops upon them so much light And unseals blooms that closed with night. The best time is the summer time Till cow parsley is dry. And there is clover now And bees to take the yield. And it is over now And there are changes in the field. The best games are the summer games, The bowler rushing in. Though voices call and wickets fall To seamers or the spin, Men caught in the pavilion’s shade Can play the strokes they never played. The best games are the summer games We still have time to win. And so we find we’re staying After afternoon. And so we find they’re playing Changes to a tune.

The Man in the Moon will come on Tuesday. He will wear his grey hat and be travelling alone. Take his luggage and his staypress suits — and, Should he speak, converse about the ocean, Women or the rush on the delivery wards. I assume he’ll take the Penthouse Suite. Do check the ice-tray in the minibar. Make sure the curtains have been drawn, And say I’m sorry that I could not stay — It’s too long since we both worked the night.

The ladies that he spoke to, soft and sure, Believed in dresses longing to be made Of no material but that very shade Of fabric he laid out. So his demure Debs’ fingers would dip gracefully to azure Yards of silk, and his housewives’ eyes, displayed A deep vermillion with a silver braid, Would find themselves seduced by its allure. On flipping round the CLOSED sign for the day, Before easing his scissors on their hook, The pleasant-suited draper paused a while At his tall mirror, practising his smile, Trying to figure quite how he might look Now all his many ladies were away.