Poetry

British Summertime

Dawn approaches and my ears are filled with wailing,

the shrill cry of a cat

defending its territory.

 

A crow laughs outside the window.

 

In my dream state

I wonder if it’s going to fly in and pay us a visit,

pondering why,

in this heat,

we’re fighting to find cover

that we don’t really want.

 

Perhaps it will repeat the phrases we spent so many weeks uttering

in winter:

why does it have to be so cold?

if only it was summer!

I’ll be happy once it gets warm again.

 

And then gather it’s buddies

in a chorus of cawing,

just to make sure we’re not tempted to try and sleep

when the sun rises and sucks the air from our lungs.

Poetry

Hooping

I step inside the circle,

raise it above my head

feeling the muscles of my shoulders and upper

arms. I can turn

clockwise

or anticlockwise,

connect it with my hips,

my back, my legs, my chest.

My heart. And

my mind.

It stops a moment after I stop,

lingering for just that fraction longer

as if posing the question ‘Shall I

go on?’