I’ve always had an affinity for the season of summer. Something about a long, dry summer brings comfort, hope, and feelings of peace and joy. I like to imagine it is because I am one of the summer-born. One who awakened to summer, whose first impression of a complex world was that of a first summer, whose first breath was of the hot, summer air. One for whom, summer is home.
As a child, the summers seemed never-ending. As the summer approached, there was anticipation like no other. Summer was life. Summer meant freedom. The magical feeling of wondrous, endless freedom is forever imprinted in my mind.
There’s a bittersweetness thinking about those days and knowing those days are gone. How have they become small fragments, memories with the passing of time? How did the magic of summer disappear? The summers never changed. The summers were here every year. They were my constant: the time of year I looked forward to all bright eyed and bushy tailed.
It hurts to know one day I changed. I must’ve changed. One of those days. One of those years. I never realised. But suddenly, it was another summer, but different. Suddenly, innocent wonder was displaced by knowledge and nonsense.
It was the coming of age of my summers. A season of change that arrived like a willy-willy, and left a trail of memories.
Summer is still my season these days. Summer will always be back.
I only hope the magic will return.
A January Summer
31st December 2017 is upon our souls.
Pope Gregory XIII, I need not proclamation from the calendar of your name to tell me the year is at an end.
For I know a January summer is here.
I know because the warmth of our brightest star crisps the leaves and steals the moisture from the air.
Bold blue dominates the skies as frightened clouds hide.
The Fremantle Doctor and the balminess of the night take a stroll in view of a smiling moon and a million tiny torches.
The Doctor’s gentle hand plays the windchimes.
Chirping crickets are skilled percussionists.
Intermissions in the music punctuate the improvised melody.
I know because the fan runs twenty-four seven.
The scorching sun peels the paint on the white picket fence.
The once-green lawn turns to hues of yellow.
The redbrick wall holds on to the summer heat.
The songs of the summer-born are heard in the early-hours of the morning.
The voice of restless youth escapes into the stillness of the night.
For a January Summer is here.
Suddenly inspired A short written as I reminisced.