It’s said that one alone don’t make a Summer

but when there’s none at all, is that when Summer’s gone?

And when there’s nothing up there but a shimmer

of dust from the desert superheated by the sun;

and when the sheds and barns remain in silence

from April to October; when radiance that shone 

on midge-full fields no longer flicks on mindless 

scything wings and sideslippings ...

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All the fuckin’ country 

is tense about some dead duck football game

tonight at 8 pm (or so I’m told).

The sea it slinked away but turned again

and stealthily manoeuvres to reclaim 

the mudflats populated by the clumsy

clumps of seals. They loiter, lolled 

like slack balloons, like lard

collapsing down to chip fat on the hob.

But we, we sit up straight: our sofa, st...

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