Sunday, 18 April 2010

again this is not a poem

it reeks of festivals outside, beautiful
cider and woodsmoke and grass and sweat.
last night it sounded the same
distant voices, laughing, screaming
grubby fumblers clawing at the zip of their tent
falling into sleep
usually summer makes my spine twinge
head throb
stomach churn
i'm ready to wear bare legs and suncream.

1 comment:

  1. yessss! does this mean you are warming to summer? (see what i did thereeee ;))