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This poem is taken from PN Review 152, Volume 29 Number 6, July - August 2003.

Four Poems John Fuller

Too Late

Summer of all seasons in its core
We feel to be wasted. It has passed
Almost unnoticed, like happiness.

How early it began! Earlier
Than we had realised, now too late
It seems, to take it fully to heart.

The welcome of a wood suffused
With bluebells which we never saw,
The mating of thrushes, thickening grass.

These things occurred while we were waiting
For them to occur, and leaves made shade
That still required the sun to prove it.

The year's tennis star is crouched
At the service line of his career.
The ball is dripping from his hand.

The gum of the sycamore is suspended

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