Oh, thou cruellest month! If August comes, then winter Can’t be far behind.
And hats off to A.H. Harker’s well-made nod to Eliot, to Paul Freeman and to W.J. Webster, a rare but eloquent fan of August. The winners take £30 and John Whitworth pockets £35.John Whitworth August, August, it’s the tops. August tastes like lollipops. August in the midday sun, Everybody having fun. Summer days will last for ever. Boys are bathing in the river. Girls in cotton dresses go Up and down and to and fro. Perfect in their loveliness Like the girls of Lyonesse, Free from worry, free from care, Happy faces everywhere. All the world is fresh and bright In that special August light. Anyway, that’s how it seems. August is the stuff of dreams.
Nick MacKinnon Augustus Caesar stole the days, but when his Empire died the Anglo-Saxon freeman claimed the weeks of Lammastide; a quiet month, a riot month, when pupils kick their heels before their bad exam results and up-the-creek appeals; a hazy month, a lazy month and such as we would see each time we drove to Kynance Cove along the 303.
We are not fans of caravans, nor statics by the shore, our kinship dwells in canvas bells that dad pitched in the war; we push their poles down last year’s holes in bristly thrifted turf, incant a spell for north-west swell and wild Atlantic surf, and catch a wave that mermaids crave, as tide begins to run across the teeth of a granite reef aglow in the August sun.
Frank McDonald On either side of summer lie Long terms that make a teacher sigh But solace comes with sweet July When Sir can cease to damn a lot. For holidays reduce the strain Of coaching thugs and feeling pain; Poor Sir can be himself again And may begin to charm a lot. Kind August lets a teacher rest From discipline and tiresome test. This is the month that he loves best For he can play and dram a lot In foreign parts with foreign sun Where joy is measured by the ton; August invites him to have fun And Sir will then stay calm a lot.
G.M. Davis August’s a month I winnow down To an intense epitome: A cricket match in Chaucer’s town In August, 1953.
The Aussie players, tanned as bark, Were twice as talented as browned, And playing as if for a lark They smacked our bowlers round the ground.
Their single innings beat Kent’s two. They won the crowd, not just the game, Lusty and cavalier. We knew Defeat by masters is no shame.
The stats the record books will cite Are true, but only half the story. When times grow dark I can relight That unforgotten August glory.
Bill Greenwell August is a smörgåsbord of boiling hot and freezing: As raucous as a beach resort, as silent as the rain — It seems to be seducing you, but ah, it’s only teasing: It offers you its sedatives, but brings a special pain.
It offers you tranquillity, and claims it’s transcendental, It offers you siestas and some sultry après-midis: The sea, the lake, the river, how they promise to be gentle, But never do they mention all the chaos of the kiddies.
Children play at August like some spoilsports high on dexies, Scuppering the karma, and alarming every nerve: You thought you’d find nirvana, but you’re filled with apoplexies — You thought you’d straighten up, but you are on a vicious curve.
Here is August, loitering, with intent and with invention, Its cocked and crooked finger urging you to take a break, To holiday, to move yourself into the fifth dimension. And now it comes to numb you, and your eyelids start to ache.
Your next challenge is to submit an extract from the diary of the spouse of a high-profile political figure, living or dead. Please email entries of up to 150 words, including a word count, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 13 September.
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