"I need the smell of summer, I need its noises in my ear."
I pretty much hate summer a lot of the time. So logically, the thing to do is to write a poem about summer each day and night. Well, probably more like versified descriptions and babble, but oh well.
On which, here goes number one:
Someone pulls out that old cliché
– doesn’t time pass so quickly –
and like something you know so well you forget,
I remember there’s a reason things become clichéd.
but today feels like the first day of summer
even if we’re about on the second chapter,
and the sun is heavy enough to squash everything.
And maybe in a world that isn’t scripted by May Sinclair,
Harriett Frean’s parents had the right idea.