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Summer Time

                             Summer Time

From the moderate midday blustery chill to the daylight saving month of may, summertime untucked from the clouds and awoke to its purpose brightly.

No more semi phantom rays.

Under the influence of it's outdoor boom a volley of bodies descend to the parks like amphibians first foray onto drier land. Summer time has changed the bedding

into a thinly threaded medley of cloth

that breath, with prints or without sleeves
and shorts folded above the knee or just below
so summer time could fall reflective
on bare flesh and perch like armour on bold heads.

Naturally, on one of summertimes earlier numbers,

a chronic bather springs alert and says,
'Wait! This heatwave began too soon,
like mocking the dead at the wake.'
Thereupon the jinx – summertime's glow undid itself.

August's sun became a nosey neighbour whom now and then,

peeped through dove grey venetian blinds. Morning's clear skies brought cunning signs of cool, nude shoulders became clotheslines hanging jumpers to split the difference...

and our quiet forecast was for the wind and the rain

to discomfort carnival – become the bow tie on a younger me back in the day. When Sunday came. Like,
'oh, my god. Church again...'

by chima nsoedo

From Belinda's workshop @ October gallery

Mother, I cannot read forecasts.

Especially of those who hide beneath a talking, spouting shell.

Is the weather rain or sunny beneath their veneer? Beneath yours?

Does the rain come with thunder and arrowed clouds?

Clouds harsh like bleachy plumes of liquid from the bottles of toilet cleaners.

Shouldn't we really turn to eco-friendly toilet cleaners?

 

So that the clouds about our covers will no longer let off parachutes of acid

That erodes the cliffs we once thought of as god's henchmen erect for morning's inspection.

Cliffs are large, lonely beasts tollerant to our digging at it's scalp to bury our dead,

Or plant our farms or plate our homes.

 

The echoes from the animals aquatic or in aviation perform a tale for the cliffs,

In the broadest proscenium arch theatre.

The cliff's way of applauding the theatrics of the sea is to bud blackberries for plucking beaks.

Blackberries pregnant by some descendant of both a seaweed and a hummingbird's eye.

Blackberries bursting with the snapshot of an old tragedy the cliffs watched where a prince,

Broken yet noble, carried his father in law with him to the afterlife where his only daughter waited -

So he could be there as they married.

Written by

Chima Nsoedo