The still English heat, The ***** promise of July the 1st Leaves the grass a mottled yellow And the dappled shade of the purple birch Almost holy. Specks of precise and glittering pollen Rest upon beds of browning foxgloves. Cats are left collapsed, Blissed out, lulled into dreams of this motionless sun shining forever.
I feel your hands in my stomach And I'm hungry for your grip As the hot sky only ripens My daydreams of your laugh. The thick scent of withering hyacinth Is the curve of your back, the taste of your sweat.
A stain of certainty is baked in By July the 1st. Novocain for my infected English heart. Whispering the start of a love that will be kicking leaves through October And sharing warmth through December.