That’s almost a certain Neil Diamond song.
And I know I’ll be regretting saying that later when up in that heat box of an attic of mine that I sleep in. Or, rather, attempt to sleep in.
Although it’s not exactly cool, at least there is some respite from the day’s fire out here.
I’ve been sitting here for a while, light fading, darkness falling. There’s a bat flitting around these gardens, and a large dragonfly, large enough to have made my daughter scream if she’d have been out here with me, passed determinedly by, maybe heading for a place to settle.
That’s provoked two questions. 1: Do bats always flit ? And 2: Where do dragonflies sleep? Just a couple of more things to keep me awake during this hot August month.
Just thought I’d check in and see how you guys are, warm or cold, in lockdown or post-lockdown.
I’ve heard we may have another storm heading our way.
Even the ice cream van . . .
Above the house, the swifts are screaming.
Can you hear them, Clarice?
We are bogged down by time and heat and lethargy.
I’m thinking of an old poem of mine, Dog Days, written under the sledgehammer of a July, noon-day sun:
who can deny /the sapping sun/at its highest point /lording over /our genuflecting /straw gods
We are all genuflecting, lowering our weary, supine brows. It’s been a hell of a long summer, and we’ve not yet reached July. Who could have foreseen this, who prepared? Not we little men, we average Joes and Josephines.
Not tonight, you-know-who.
Tomorrow is more of the same, that has been foreseen, but nothing lasts forever, nothing lasts at all, and storms are due to hit the day after that.
And then we batten down. Straw Gods and rush men.
Children of the corn. Drinking in the rain.
My daughter, Courtney, caught me yesterday in Lockdown Hell:
You just know that the weather must be good if those white northern legs are out, especially in May.
If this keeps up, this pale face may even sport a tan.
I think I better get tested.
I’m sitting in the garden, once again, this time reading Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine.
It’s summer. I can smell summer; taste summer. My jackdaws are lining up along the neighbour’s rooftop, tethered by the sun.
It’s in the autumn I’ll think of my father; my grandparents, see the young ghosts of my brother and I playing cricket in the ginnel, dwarfed by walls I can comfortably peer over.
For now, it’s my children, playing with the dog as I pause to watch, mid-sentence, laughing on the threshold of a great beyond.
Night has finally fallen on this longest day. For once, the summer solstice actually looked like a summer’s day. I think the heat and energy was affecting everyone.
I saw a woman shouting like a matador to passing cars. “Speed down! Speed down! You’re speeding up!” Then, almost as an aside to herself: “I’m old school. Hard school.”
Can you actually ‘speed down’? Can an old school be a hard school? These are the things keeping me awake tonight.
Like I said, it’s affecting everyone.
From my poetry blog.
Dog Days pockets of dereliction the dog days of July hanks of grass and shaggy-maned stalks who can deny the sapping sun at its highest point lording over our genuflecting straw gods in the square in the shade of a spreading elm the fatigue of noon-day workers ©AndrewJamesMurray