English Summer

ENGLISH SUMMER

England expects
Every man to do his duty.
Paste himself to the television
Waiting for that missed goal opportunity.
Not for me.
The day dawns
Sultry heat pervades
Contemplation of an afternoon
Relaxing in patio sunshine
Away from mania and men
Motivation to complete humdrum.
My quiet morning routines
Assaulted by noisy hoovering
The grill-scraping session at the sink
Ensuring teeth remain clenched
But tongue resists temptation
Biding time until kick off
And warm, temporary escape.
Shocked, yet still silent
As the drone of the patio hose
Attacks my planned solitude
I wonder at your telepathic skills
Never to my advantage
Always invasive, perverse.
My late lunch now consumed in anger
Damp chairs, scattered plant pots
Tensing my organised mind.
Gentle wood pigeon calls
Drowned as you decide to join me.
How nice.
Moving seats to avoid views of flab
Quiet reading disturbed by inane questions.
‘What’s that plant called?’
Please leave me alone.
‘When does it flower?’
Please go and watch the match
‘What do you want for dinner?’
Your head on a plate in gravy.
Droning sounds interrupt
Bees or African horns?
At last you buzz off.
Not in the mood now
For leisurely pastimes
I listen to your grunts and exclamations
Oh my God’s and cursing
As England lose four-one.
Male summer soccer season
Thankfully over once more
Take down your flags and grieve.

July 2010