This is the lived-for time, activities time.
All windows are thrown open.
I have my sum cream -
three tubes of it -
and a new bikini on standby
waiting in the dark of my wardrobe
to finally be worn
and fade in the sunlight, while my skin
turns red then golden brown.
But, oh, dream on! The wait is so protracted.
This is the season that can never be relied upon.
It is the season that mostly disappoints,
with clouds heaped up like mountains.
heavily, heavily filtered through raindrops
casts a graded grey sheen over the landscape.
Drab asininity. Depressing.
It is the rain that governs all,
but neither purposely nor unintentionally:
This is a period of blind faith, of craving and praying for sun -
a sun so elusive I hardly remember it's beauty,
it's effect on the earth:
all that blossoming and burgeoning, that is still on hold.
Only hope keeps me going,
and golden memories of rare heatwaves.
It is these I thrive on, rather than present reality.
But the rain batters everything, there is no escape.
Now there is a virtual lake where the lawn should be,
with dissolving worm casts.
The garden's tears are brown.
They spread onto the patio, leaving nowhere to walk
except in wellies
and are systematically drowning all the insects.
The sun is alpha male,
all-powerful, laughing at us from his high throne:
uncontested sovereign of the unseasonal
who delights in thwarting our year-long holiday plans.
Summer is for the foolish -
the foolish who believe in the sun god,
who worship him in the rain,
their bodies numb with cold and brains too dumb to reason.
Can we survive yet another English summer? Will the roses
blossom before rotting on their stems,
or live long enough to see the sun?
If so, what will they smell of - mildew?
Sudden chink in endless cloud. Gorgeous sunset.
Pass my camera. QUICK!!!