Visions: As summer Drags its Feet

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Like newly washed hair, the grass is fresh and lazily ornamented with flashes of daisies until it rides silkily up to meet the dead, pallid spire at the pinnacle of a summer; scorching, brooding and unbearable, but only for me.

Bells ring out, their tired aching chimes echo the cracking veneer, but a faithful congregation helps oil the wheels as summer drags its feet. When I raise my head I see a line of a thousand angels coming, but only for me.

I try not to glance, and ignore their cry, but their lamentations saturate the voices calling me. Do I stay till I die? Will I go hide? I hurry inside to the chorus waiting patiently. I sing till I blend, and in prayer, but only for me.

Crying so they won’t find me, my tears pull my face to the floor, and I shun the heavens and forgiveness, curling up inside and sleeping despite distant strums and harps humming. I wait till they stop their noises and only then can I sigh, but only for me.

Naïve faces trickle out in a stream onto the blistering grass leaving me cold and naked. I cover my ears and press my body into the grain of smooth, warmed wood; the music plays louder, but only for me.

I see chattering mouths and optimistic eyes through their haze of sweat, but the fanfare doesn’t stop them. Through thick, dust rimmed, stain glass held firmly by the nervure of lead and its envious green, I see them kneel and pray, but only for me.

My clenched fists loosen, and speared fingers bathe in the comfort of the beams of daylight gliding across a dilapidated cement floor, and I know that I don’t want to die. The cracks are showing, the fissures of guilt are widening, but only for me.

A butterfly pits its wits against the glass; it has to wonder who daubs the air with colour, waxing lyrical with nothing else to do? And it dies; its ashes collapsing like powder through the air, falling into my open palms. It is odious, it is degradation as beauty burns and I sob, but only for me.

Ashen faced, weeping, crying, I find foul soil, I heed them coming. I differentiate my crime, my deals and desperation. I absolve myself in apprehension of recrimination while their reverberation gets louder, but only for me.

When morning comes, I’ll be colder and calloused and wear the marks of a witness accused, but I hold my head up now to the grey sky and I long for the solace of the trifling blues. I always long, but only for me.

I am guilty, so I fear, and they have found me. I am anguish, and they can glance into my soul. So what if I have sinned? I sinned not for judgement but for understanding. Am I for them, Hell in disguise? The sun tries to shine an aging allure of hope, but only for me.

I bask in its innocence and willingness to forgive. I sunbathe on the grass of green liberty and free. I hear their harmonies and their tirade in false clothing, I sing though for justice and the recovery of me. I sing out loud, but only for me.

I crawl to the apse, and from silver-plated chalice, I sip the divine. I feel wretched and compromised all of the time. I mock the wafer-thin body and rose blood for it if were redemption then I’d be a drunkard and blessed enough to be subservient and I‘d drink, but only for me.

The more I deny the more the sky lights with a conflagration of brimstone – all their design. As darkness flays and is done around me, my bones do declare – it is uncommon to be exhausted and I am, but uncommon only for me.

I am weary, but I have hope despite my aches as I relent. There is no rest for zealous angels, their shouts become louder and I admit to a deficiency; tired of hiding, let the heavens open, but only for me.

I heed clearly the sight as my hopes are crystallised in their shimmering. I wonder if this is a new beginning for everyone despite what we have done, briefly I see new dreams and dreaming, but only for me.

As they approach I have to admire their beatific faces; their lustrous purpose, their optimistic song; but I too would smile down in splendid array if everyone sang to my tune. They hold both my arms gently, but with determined mission, and my legs kick out, and slightly, but only for me.

I look down on a departing congregation as they shake their disgruntled heads tilted to a cloud’s full bosom even though the summer still beckons and kicks its heels and on the green grass it shuffles. This summer will go on and still drag, but only for me.

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Author: Anita Lubesh

I write poetry/prose/stories/short stories/verses for children/sketch/and have 6 chapters of a novel sitting there like that half eaten trifle in the fridge or bottle of Jack Daniels because something makes you afraid to eat it or drink... right now.. I am a proud Geordie from England's northern hemisphere and the beautiful city of Newcastle upon Tyne. I live with my lovely husband who came all the way from sunny California just for me, and my favourite animal, Bobble, our dog. I am a member of Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth and wish we could all do more, especially today, when such a lot is wrong.

7 thoughts on “Visions: As summer Drags its Feet”

  1. You create beautiful imagery. The use of word pictures is just great.Ashes falling in my open palms. Beauty burns. Yet another I sinned not for judgment but for understanding all just superb.

    Liked by 1 person

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