Sunday, August 2, 2009

It Is August

The sun melts. In rays of pure honey, it slips and slides down over the trees, dripping molten gold onto green clover and slowly spreading out over the sleepy garden - a hypnotic, blonde veil. It oozes underneath the cottage door, pooling up by the windows where just outside, a robin sits in the rose bush longing for a bath. She hops to the stone edge and gazes down at her sherbet-hued twin staring back from inside the clear water. Her tiny toe dips up and down, testing the coolness in careful anticipation. The big white dog watches from the windowseat, eyes half mast, lost in the memory and the dream of a day in autumn. Breezes like cauldron steam seethe and swirl round the cottage; torpid jailers, holding the big dog hostage within the shaded walls where gentle music plays - cellos, flutes and chimes - ancient tunes that know their way through lassitude. Like a misty haze, the heat muddles the mind, gradually erasing every idea but those fleeting rose-hued notions of seasides, iced drinks, and bare feet.
On the colour wheel of months, bright yellow has rolled into view -
it is the high noon of the year.
It is hot.
We are lazy.
It is August.