The sum of this year’s sunshine laid down in the weight of hedges
A luxury of space for art from when the summer was younger
The push-rich jump to the front of the queue for a penny treat
Newly-minted linen and leather bound
Shades throwing shade
White butterflies over a palette of green while the whelk watches
At the end of the garden, listening to the ailing ladies
All aches under endless, faultless blue skies
The hatted salmon lattes, breakfast eaten at the gallery
Inside the sculptures are stopped
The frozen grin of a deer skull
Dead tree
Old wheels unspun
Where did you dance when the summer was younger?
Notes
I wrote this poem in 2025, then mislaid it and then stumbled across it today. The feeling of summer heat seems pertinent this year, with heatwave after heatwave and having to retreat indoors to escape the sun.
Whelk: Marine mollusc with a spiral shell (archaic: a boil)
Welkin:The sky
