Long and Leisurely - July 11 2026

 

Long and Leisurely 

July 11 2026

The pace slows in summer.

The sign on the door 

is turned to Closed, 

phones

ring unheard

on abandoned desks.

We sit on the covered porch, fanning ourselves.

Watch insects butt against the screen

feeling smugly protected,

their frantic buzzing

tuned out

as clever ears adjust.

Gaze out at clouds

and guess what they meant

wait for a breeze

to stir the sultry air

trapped beneath the overhang;

a brief reprieve

that leaves us even hotter.

Days are long and leisurely.

Because move toof ast

and you get light-headed

flushed with sweat

 — a Victorian dowager

overcome with the vapours,

desperate for her fainting chair 

before she drops.

This isn’t laziness, it’s nature.

Because while a liquid, subject to heat, comes to a boil

we slow;

our molecules

are contrarians

who scorn the rules.

Warm-blooded creatures, it appears

are exempt from physical law.

We are lizards

splayed out on sun-warmed rocks

soaking up precious heat,

eyes blinking shut

and chests lifting 

in short shallow breaths.

We are dragonflies

who’ve alighted on a leaf

and stand on sylphlike legs,

multicoloured bodies 

like ornaments

in enamelled glass,

gossamer wings

like embroidered silk. 

So still

you’d think we were decorative,

pinned in place

on a plain green blouse.

The kitchen clock ticks on,

the planet turns

as steadily as always, 

and shadows shrink

then lengthen

like time lapse photography. 

But Einstein was wrong;

time stops

not at the speed of light

but when July melts into August,

and the long indolent days

bleed into the next.