A Sleepy Summer’s Afternoon

A Sleepy Summer Afternoon

It’s a lazy, 

sleepy afternoon, 

the villages 

are empty, 

flowers,

in colours 

of summer, 

curtsy and nod 

in the baking sunlight, radiating off walls 

and shimmering rooftops, and, as if uplifted, 

a single buzzard flies 

and swoops overhead. 

It’s so warm, 

the distance 

is translated, 

from far and away, 

to the here 

and now: 

a band of 

light above 

the winding road, 

the asphalt, soft, 

under the lens 

of light, 

a magnifying glass 

to places and oases 

beyond the peel 

of church bells, 

that mark, 

in a sudden silence, 

the slipping 

of hours. 

And it is here 

that I stop, 

and step off the path, 

lean over the fence, 

across the summer gardens, 

the flowerbeds, 

the well kept lawns, 

abandoned lawnmowers, 

the hiss 

of water sprinklers, 

the hurried slam 

of descending sun blinds, 

and here it is 

that I stop, 

and look at the world 

from the side.

And beyond 

the crumbling brick wall, 

the crooked apple tree, 

bending like time, 

over the broken gap, 

the open doorway, 

where butterflies 

dance and tarry, 

I see further than myself, 

the slow patterns 

of the wind 

and seasons, 

the trembling shadow hands 

of leaves, 

and deeper, 

further into the folds 

and valleys 

of the distances 

that await me.

But of course,

I am blind. 

I can see 

no further 

than the fingers 

of my left hand, 

the hand that feels 

the breeze 

flow thorough 

and across it. 

The memories 

and whispers 

of former times 

gather and press 

around me, 

shaping, waiting, 

listening 

to my breathing, 

hearing the dance 

of my heart 

as I slowly feel myself slipping, 

stretching 

and falling 

through.

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