English summer
The roads weep tears of tar
As the country bakes.
The smell of dust and burning earth
Mingles with the scents
Of barbecues and beer.
Dogs pant, distressed
By this unusual heat.
The puddles that once
Were inland lakes, shrink,
Dry up and vanish,
Leaving cracking mud
Peppered with footprints.
A few days only,
And yet we crave rain,
A cooling breeze at least;
The nights a humid torment,
Skin sticking to sheets,
Mouth parched by 3 a.m,
Head pounding from poor sleep,
We curse the early birds,
The only ones pleased
To see the rising sun.
Lawns yellow, turn to straw,
The earth beneath unforgiving
As concrete or stone,
Holding the heat for hours
And giving it back all night.
Tempers fray, quarrels start,
Passions rise to boiling point.
The long days draw out,
Hellish hot and airless,
Fields whiten with ripening wheat,
The thrips infest my hair,
Tickling and torturing me
With pinpoint irritation
Grown great with weary heat.
Too brief, these days of sun:
Thunder storms relieve us,
The first drops sizzling
As they hit the burning ground.
The air, cool and damp,
Brings fresher nights
And better sleep for all.
Zen and the Art of Tightrope Walking 