Hazy summer afternoons,
to sit under the shade of a parasol,
sip tea and delicately nibble a pastry
while admiring a perfectly green lawn.
Me! I’d rather have a bacon butty;
never had a parasol nor an army of straw
standing to attention saluting a lawnmower.
From my flat, I can see a grey factory
wall painted white by the sun,
but no hazy pastel coloured afternoons though.
When I venture, out the moon is in full charge of the night
and no one sees me leave, bothersome people
who might ask about hazy pubs.
April and May are the best months,
time before April is vainglorious hope
and after May, bitter disappointment.
“Why?” I ask myself, do we chase around for love,
when the end result is just another
Greek vase of illusion
shattered on the kitchen floor