I haul myself to my feet
I can picture the haze of buttercups in the field
I imagine I feel the gentle breeze on my face
but I recall no smell
I plod through to the kitchen and turn on its soulless light
Summer seems so long ago and I wonder now if there were buttercups at all
or if they are a fragment from some summer past
A detail my mind adds to each successive year
The heating is firmly off
I knew it would be