Heat

Tree, Field, Oilseed, Summer, Alpine, Switzerland, Creative Commons, realworkhard, PixabayThis is a poem I wrote in about 10 minutes in a coffee shop the other day that I’ve been pondering ever since. I was in London, and the hot, humid rumble of the city really says “summer” to me for some reason. But another thing that says “summer” are weekends in the garden, ill-advised barbecues, and ice cream, and I wanted to note down all my thoughts and feelings about a hot summer’s day in England. Let me know what you think!

Heat.

Hot, white, blinding heat.

Cornflower skies and sagging golden fields.

Sunkissed –

Sunscorched –

skin pressed against hot wicker chairs.

Bare legs,

bare shoulders,

squinting eyes.

Brows heavy with heat and burn and the dozing drone of bees.

The whine and hum of a jet wash

and the shriek of ice-cream-drugged children.

The sizzle and hiss of blackened meat

and the roar of beer-soaked laughter.

Summer.

The haunting, electric piano tinkle of the ice cream van

and the half-attempted greeting of a dog walking by.

Denim shorts brush deliciously against tingling, tender skin.

Eyes adjust slowly to green and grey shadows

and glass bottles sweat heavily on the table next to wilting flowers.

Later there will be pink, peeling skin and

cool blue dusks – the moon a silver disk.

Children’s swimsuits will hang across the banisters,

water pistols will be abandoned – half-full – by the door,

(with the flip flops and sunglasses and the sun hat with the hole in it).

The ice cream will stick to the roofs of mouths,

and summer will become a long hangover vaguely remembered.

Photo Credit: realworkhard, Pixabay
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