Saturday, March 26, 2005


Summer Time

We are camouflaged by the long grass walling the sides of the square sleeping bag and the shade from the trees and the movement of the washing creating dots of light massaging our bare legs and feet. I lie this way, she lies that. The ruffling of the leaves making a convenient block to the rattling of voices next door. Waves of cool wind flow over us. A plane glides over as if to nowhere in the clear blue sky. Tiny creatures are swarming through the tall stalks of grass. Ants are ascending the highest peaks, attempting the toughest angles. Several wasps hover over and then disappear.

The spots on the concrete mark the rain and the peach colours dim as a dark cloud threatens above. Ann is talking about ladybirds or something; laying down on her multi-coloured sleeping bag, moaning because she has discovered she’s brought out the wrong ‘What’s On TV’. She goes in and comes out with her wonder lust book, turning about uncomfortably on the ground and then settling her self down to concentrate on the soap page. She quickly gets fed up with this and folds herself up into a legs-folded position, her shoes with the ventilation holes placed on the concrete slab next to her. She now gets up and moves the sleeping bag so that it folds up the wall and sits, arms folded, with her back against it, knees together, bare feet out. We sit, I in my chair, she next to me on the ground. The plants growing tall between the rectangular slabs, a whole catalogue of types, some spindly, some with leaves spreading out and folding over the edges like open pages.

Next doors lawn mower has broken. The old lady has broken the blade on the edge of the lawn. This leaves me in peace only leaving the light sound of shears now skimming the grass, a blessed relief! Now erupts an argument with the old man. She kneels complaining of the effort; “Where’s the little shears?”. The old man is deaf as a post. It’s as if they are talking to themselves. I’ve just noticed our bush or hedge or something is getting rather high. Soon it’ll be encroaching on my window space and I’m on the second floor. The loose branches wave around in the breeze. The school across the road is dead for the summer. Their grass has been cut by one of those cutting machines. It has changed now from an untidy ruffled mess to a smooth green square edged by wall and wrought iron gate which is always kept locked with a bolt.

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