We Are not used to the heat.
It weighs on us. Heavily.
Faces sheened in sweat.
And red with the slightest exertion.
Dropping heavily into seats
Soon made sticky.
Groaning and muttering about
'This Heat..'.
Rolling our eyes to the heavens
Loving the indulgence
Of daytime Dozing.
And the Lazy layer of
Hazy goodwill.
That comes in the evening
Over some wine
with a heaven sent breeze.
And when its too hot to sleep
In the night
The salty taste of skin.
And the helpless
Naive optimism
Of a bright blue morning.
With Only time.
To not change a thing.
A very atmospheric portrayal. It takes imagination to create a poem out of such materials. By the way, I think the talent lies on your side, not mine. Thanks for the message, and give us more of this mature but gently wry and youthful writing.
You do love the colour blue! I wonder what a hot summer in Ireland is - 35 degrees? No wonder the pastey skinned convicts couldn't handle Australia when they arrived in those boats... I do love the salty taste of skin and the helpless naive optimism. You seem to reflect upon your innocence in your poems with the eyes of a jaded cynic - a lovely balance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
makes me wish it was summer, reminds me of when I was a child and was innocent enough to naturally appreciate the Summer