It's been ages. Hot and sunny and dry. We've been hanging out washing, eating outside, and having water fights. It's been chuffing marvellous. So I thought it deserved a poem. I've been working on lots of poems lately - this is my fourth today! The other ones probably get more editing before I'll let them see the light of day, and then they're off on a special mission. I seem to have lost my usual way of wanting to stick within particular meter and rhyme structures, but that's OK. Perhaps it's the heat.
I can share this one, and I'm sharing it on The Prompt too (the prompt was 'window,' and this poem has open windows in it): The Hot.
The Hot
The hot has come
with iris flowers,
lawns beset with buttercups,
bare legs and freckles,
ice lollies dripping,
and drifts of kids.
Behind open windows
we cannot sleep.
Legs outstretched like the cat
who shelters in the cool,
leaving nests of moulting fur.
Wearing as little as is decent
with big pants so thighs won't rub.
Limbs scratched and bitten
but still uncovered,
save for sun cream and Skin So Soft.
We carry candles of citronella.
And this hot we treat as training
for holidays far away.
And you won't hear complaints
for fear that it might stop.
We know it will stop.
We keep an eye on the weather.
It's to rain on Sunday.
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