Seeing as we’re skipping spring and going straight into summer and a mini heatwave, I thought this poem would be quite appropriate:



The last breeze they remember seemed
a lifetime ago, a legend passed down
through generations to regale a time
when they didn’t squirm beneath the arching sun
that melted their brains.

The slow heat passes through
their porous skin and, soaked in sweat,
they writhe like putrid monsters –
wilting in the heat and breathing
fire from their lungs.

Evening comes, the sun less bright,
and the living corpses move again.
Buoyed by hunger they roam
to the coolness of the fridge, to gorge
there in vast quantities until,

exhausted by inertia, and the craving
for reality driven TV, they retire to bed, some in pairs,
and stir with groans before the sunrise,
desperate for their insomnia to ease
so they can sleep and never have to dream.

(c) Darren Hawbrook

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