Here it comes–
the sticky glisten
of sweat, under
polyester Santa-hats.
Sunnies on,
backs-of-legs burning
on the sizzling car seat
drenched in sun
singing ‘Let it Snow’.
A cold white bowl of
bulging, tap-wet grapes,
in a darkened room –
the low-level murmur
of cricket in the background, and
gentle fairy-light glints
on the edge of the tv.
Spread-eagled on the
cool tile floor, trying to escape the
damp fragrant roast-chicken heat
given off by the oven –
Mum humming while she chops the veg
in an apron with reindeer on it.
The baked-grass smell of hot road
when the rain hits
still holds the glamour
of school-holidays gone by.
wonderful, you evoke it all for me too - last stanza is memory perfectly repeated
ReplyDeleteOh, it's coming it is! Baked-grass smell of hot road is so evocative.
ReplyDelete