Friday, October 18, 2013


Its just shy of 37º centigrade. Its strange how what I'm told is my normal body temperature sits well on the inside, but out here I'm all sweat-and-wheres-the-shade. I'm watching the leaves outside my kitchen window the way I assume sniper's check them on the battlefield. I doubt someone runs around, pre-testerone measuring, placing wind flags at regular intervals. Where was I going with this half-baked *see what I did there? I promise I'll stop* analogy? Yes heat, no leaf movement. I'm taking a cheap vacation i.e. I'm going to pick up a book and read, seeing as the only thing my effort's good for right now is complaining that its too hot. As is my prerogative to hold two thoughts at once - the temperature dipped a couple of weeks ago and I actually heard myself grumbling about how wasn't it supposed to be summer nye nye who wants winter blah blah. Before I slink away to find some prose heres a little poetry from Tredinnick's Quartert For The End of Time. 

And then whatever we’re call- /ing the season goes and it /comes again in October /and then it’s gone till sometime /in late December, when we/ decide it deserves its name/ and let it stay. But this year/ summer’s prophet comes hotter  

Mark Tredinnick, I - Too much summer too close to home

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