June in flames

and we sleep naked

waking early to

weary birdsong not

knowing what to do

with the extra hours

granted,

we breakfast outside 

on fruit, in the shade

of a sycamore, good

black coffee sears my

throat like hot soot,

bizarrely gulls scream

overhead a hundred or 

more miles from the sea, 

the morning simmers

under siesta clouds

that willfully tease our

fortitude so we hastily 

change plans and seek

chores closer to home,

mid-morning feels like

mid-afternoon, our

vigour stolen from

under our noses,

we fidget as if held

in the underbelly of

a giant motionless

torpid creature and 

look for release.

© Graham R Sherwood