THE MISSED MONTH
August when the heat is so intense
That many disappear into tents
It seems the whole country is devoid
Of locals gone back into the void.
True it is unbearably hot
And you just can’t do a lot!
So, awards to those who stay
At least to sell food for which we pay.
Holiday makers abound
As you look out they cover the ground
Like chickens roasting on a spit
Anywhere there’s sun, it’s a hit.
But for those of us who live here
At least our old house it’s clear
Is our perfectly cool refuge
Even if we pray for a deluge!
But then there are the fiestas
When awakened from our siestas
Yearly battles of Moors v Christians
With authentic uniforms and weapons.
With the smell of cordite in the air
Fireworks play their part in the affair
With tuneless bands and noisy drums
The languid air is thick with thrums.
Perhaps now you can understand?
We long for cloudy skies in other lands.
The peace of an English countryside
When August in its glory is revived!
© David Tenneson 2015.