The journey to the house and back was seconds, but my thoughts stretched so much further. |
The sun's gone in - Which is a strange thought, I've always felt, because how Can the sun 'go in' when It has no home to go to? - And it's getting colder, the inside Of my thighs no longer sweaty but sticking Together as they freeze, and my fingers stiffening, the hairs On my arms raising, so I think I myself will go in (and much More effectively than any sun could ever aspire to). I summon the energy to Lift up my head (then my back, then my legs and so on so forth Until I'm completely stood) And I grab all my stuff, which isn't much, And begin to head in. Except the sun is being spiteful - I thought peekaboo was a children's game? - So I'm warmed again on the short trip from here to there So I turn on my heel and shuffle back to the grass bed And lay my things out, again. I check the blue above me but the heavens seem absent, Or rather drifting off towards Bracknell to bless them with some shade, So I lie back completely and relax. Except I've lost that comfy position that only comes On a blue-moon (or warm sun) So I turn in frustration and then I'm nose to tip with the tiny blades Of grass that sparkle just above my sweaty lip. There is an ant beneath me. I appreciate the little black bug but then my thought supplies The realisation that I am in fact sat On top Of many of that little black bug's friends (i should have brought a sunbed) And now all I can see is the little black bug Squished beneath my sweaty thighs. The ant is dragging a dead fly (makes me feel better, because he's a killer, too), And the wings are colouring him purple And the grass has curled Around him in the wind. (The perfect cage for a murderer.) His mates deserved their fate if that's what they do with their lives. My thoughts scare me back inside. The sun is still out. |