Scorcher
July 9 2016


The scorcher never came.

That summer day
with waves of heat
boiling off the blacktop,
the smell of tar
gone tacky-soft.

When the air is thick, and motionless.
When rivulets of sweat
trickle down the hollow
at the small of the back.
When necks turn red, collars grit
faces flush
heads spin.
When clammy skin sticks
shirts hang limply.

When there’s an electric buzz in the air
and sun is relentless,
so even the shade
is hardly bearable.

When sleeping dogs lie
grass browns
flowers sag.
When tress stand stoically,
roots probing deep beneath the soil.

When teenaged girls
in skimpy swim-suits
worship sun,
bored boys
listlessly run.
And their elders lounge under-cover,
nursing icy tumblers
of convivial stuff.

And when only fools, or the hard up
go about the business
of the working day,
even they are dreaming of cold lakes
a cleansing rain.

Einstein was wrong;
time dilates with heat, not speed.
Because when it’s a scorcher
seconds barely tick 
minutes seem endless
days stand still.

We wait all winter for this;
only to wish
for blessed relief. 



The weather  forecast looked like hot, humid, clear. I was hoping for the first scorcher of the summer, which has been disappointingly cool, late, and  wet. But it turned out pretty temperate, with a lot of cloud. More of the same! 

My imagination drifted back to those hot muggy days of bone deep heat that seem interminable, enervating, oppressive. If they weren’t so rare here, and if they truly felt endless, they’d be unbearable. But as it is, we revel in the heat. Even the muggy humid stuff.

It was important to involve the senses here, so the poem has sight, sound and smell, as well as touch.