A Summr's Day

I know you like a summer’s day.

Like you, I prefer it still—

when I’m gentle on your skin,

when days grow longer

and nights turn warm.

Greener grass lines your path,

and on either side,

the cowslips rise to meet the brim of your hat

that keeps the shade.

Like any summer’s day,

I find you outdoors,

in full colour and activity—

bursting with friendships,

with picnics and bottles of wine.

By the riverbank, next to a local pub,

there’s so much chatter and laughter.

I see you sometimes

struggle to keep up

with the conversation beside you.

You like a summer’s day—

and the walks that you take,

the company you keep.

But I’ve noticed lately,

you stay away from your birthplace,

your childhood home,

where I grow harsher, hotter still—

almost making you breathless

in the afternoon heat.

The stillness is broken only

by the chirping of crickets—

unless you’ve made the seaside your escape:

a retreat among hundreds,

each one like you,

guarding their towel,

their patch of sand,

before taking to the sea

to cool off from the weight of humidity.

I am your outdoor heat—

the energy that makes you thrive,

makes you grow to harvest.

But alone, I can burn,

and engulf any hope of life.

As kind as I can be,

I can also create a storm—

drawing in clouds and wind

that toss your hair

and drive you back indoors,

until I can shine on you again.

Written in June 2025