Insurgent Sun 2020. A poem by George Gibson

At the right moment
summer arrived.
Lulled into its softness,
hard edges lessened,
good moods multiplied.

How long can this insurgent
sun fill the clear skies?

A few weeks ago,
rain poured, temperatures
dropped. Girded against
it we kept on.

We told ourselves lies
to get out of bed
in the morning.

Employment and business
mutate. New language to learn.
Generation of alien prospects.

Occasionally looking at
each other. Lost.
Feels like mourning.

The seasons cascade
along with them, thoughts
flicker and fluctuate.

An unanswered question:
Will winter be welcome?
We tire of the debate.