The Day-Star

Chopping up strawberries
to add to our branded Pimms jug,
I realise why I distrust summer
' its arrogance '
the hyper-reality of sunlight,
those overexposed July mornings;
we chat with our palms
pressed flat to the sky,
crowns of light brambling
through our finger-slats.

When the sun rests
behind fast moving cloud
' a temporary Mordor '
we take the opportunity
to watch it head on,
the smell of crushed mint,
gas burning,
the source of all life
seems nothing more
than a torch inside a tent.

As the horizon caramelises,
we piece together our rickety
Seventies three-man: mouldy
orange canvas and bamboo poles.
Ears and noses charred,
we lie beneath the galactic rash
and suggest new constellations:
the octopus,
the power cut,
the ceiling of the planetarium.
We name each humble speck.

But modesty is a mirage of distance
and, by morning we are gassed,
clawing at the mosquito net,
flopping onto the burnt yellow grass,
gasping for cleanliness;
we do not need our eyes to tell us
that the day-star has not moved.
Gentle amber ghosts
make nameless shapes
on the backs of our eyelids.