A Summer Afternoon

Sleepy Summer Afternoon

It’s a lazy, 

sleepy afternoon, 

the villages 

are empty, 

flowers,

in colours 

of summer, 

curtsy 

and nod 

in the baking sunlight,

 radiating off walls 

and shimmering rooftops,

and, 

as if uplifted, 

a single buzzard 

flies 

and swoops

 overhead. 

It’s so warm, 

the distance 

is translated, 

from far 

and away, 

to the here 

and now: 

a band of 

light above 

the winding road, 

the asphalt, soft, 

under the lens 

of light, 

a magnifying glass 

to places 

and oases 

beyond the peel 

of church bells, 

that mark, 

in a sudden silence, 

the slipping 

of hours. 

And it is here 

that I stop, 

and step off the path, 

lean over the fence, 

across the summer gardens, 

the flowerbeds, 

the well kept lawns, 

abandoned lawnmowers, 

the hiss 

of water sprinklers, 

the hurried slam 

of descending 

sun blinds, 

and here it is 

that I stop, 

and look 

at the world 

from the side.

And beyond 

the crumbling brick wall, 

the crooked apple tree, 

bending like Father Time,

over the broken gap, 

the open doorway, 

where butterflies 

dance and tarry, 

I see further than myself, 

the slow patterns 

of the wind 

and seasons, 

the trembling 

shadow hands 

of leaves, 

and deeper, 

further into the folds 

and valleys 

of the distances 

that await me.

But of course,

I am blind. 

I can see 

no further 

than the fingers 

of my left hand, 

the hand that feels 

the breeze 

flow thorough 

and across it. 

and the  memories 

and whispers 

of former times,

they, that gather 

and press 

around me, 

shaping, 

waiting, 

listening 

to my breathing, 

hearing the dance 

of my heart 

as I slowly feel myself 

slipping, 

stretching 

and falling 

through.

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