Solstice

Voices carry through the night.

Amplified by still-warm walls.

Ironic: humans outside and cats in.

Every window door vent thrown wide,

As the moths have a jamboree.

No breeze to ruffle my book leaves tonight,

only the tap of winged things, scampering over mottled ink.

All dry, everything dry, save my sweat.

Tonight, England has become Greece.

Folk keep Mediterranean hours,

yet still drink tea. I hear kettles.

Lighter flints. A radio. Bottles opening. Somewhere,

a muffled orgasm, hushed (then giggles).

On this Solstice evening the Pagan in me stirs,

As I sway, content, in my hammock.

Surrounded by Jasmine scent,

Suspended, in warm air.

Reading, yet with all

senses cocked.

 

© Tom Tide 2017

 

 

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