Hot Days Of Summer Poem by Rory Hudson

Those were the days,
the hot days of summer:
when blonde girls in white dresses
came from green shadows on black horses
and passed the long hours dancing
in lingering steps to the cloying music
in sweet strains flowing from the balcony.
And old men
sitting in deckchairs underneath the poplars
with newspapers to fan away the flies
spoke drowsily of forgotten landscapes,
mumbled dreamily about bygone lovers.

Those were the days,
the hot days of summer:
when through the tall dead grass came men and women
with deep dark eyes sparkling with recent laughter
and not yet dulled by dreary pathways
or clouds of dust disturbed by wanderers
from distant regions in dry heat of summertime.
And young men
sitting on the lawns with their backs against the treetrunks
whistled at the girls passing along beside them
under the lengthening shadows of the evening,
telling jokes to one another to pass the time.

Those were the days,
the hot days of summer:
when laughing people walked gaily beside the water
in groups of four or five and made reflections
in little rippling waves that washed beside us
as our feet dangled dripping in and out of creeks
letting the light entrance us moving in coloured patches.
And all of us
swarmed together under the drowsy sun,
walked in and out of the ivy-covered house
eating cakes and biscuits and drinking sherry
and talking idly until the evening passed.

Those were the days.
The hot days of summer.