August, by Tove Jansson


Every year, the bright
Scandinavian summer nights
fade away without anyone


One evening in August
you have an errand outdoors,
and all of a sudden
it’s pitch-black.

A great warm, dark
surrounds the house.
It is still summer,

but summer is no longer
It has come
to a standstill;


withers, and autumn
is not ready to begin.
There are no stars yet,
just darkness.

The can of kerosene
is brought up from the cellar
and left in the hall,
and the lamp is hung up
on its peg by the door.
Day by day,


moves closer
to the house.

Tove Jansson, from The Summer Book, p.166

Some found poems


  1. Lovely hymn to the nuances of each month, that is surely reinforced with age. I wonder if these things are more pronounced the nearer the poles we live – the idea of summer being ‘no longer alive’ echoes well in Scotland.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Thanks for posting, Anthony. The Summer Book is one of my favourite books. Already, up here in Scotland, there is a sense of summer dwindling, and the Lammas Market, formerly the old hiring fair, has come to town, huge rides and machines sitting alongside and whirling above the medieval and Renaissance buildings in South Street and Market street.

    Liked by 1 person

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