The Summer of Our Discontent

by Carol Rogers

caroge@live.co.uk

Long, muted days, ladled with low cloud,

too stubborn to permit the sun through

and lift the dejected chill. The sky flints

above cheated butterflies, clipped by their

own impatient wings. A summer skipped over;

shivering in back gardens with the slow

smoke of sickly barbecues, hinting at October.

But it's only July. And everyone is waiting

for the right to start moaning about the

insufferable heat, and how it's far too

muggy to get a decent night's sleep.

©2010 Carol Rogers

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