It rains in summer
By Laurence Meehan
Blue is the Warmest Colour
As the Dervish Dance.
Beyond the Sycamore trees.
Incandescent chanting of the birds
and the bees.
Summer is calling.
Answer please.
Feathered wild gorse between the rock.
A shimmering haze over the farmer’s flock.
The rapeseed Valley.
Wearing her yellow frock.
There’s a dance tonight.
She is dancing stock.
Wheat waving to let sunlight through.
Evening Primrose with morning dew.
Decanted Barley and hops for brew.
Summer mornings.
On this planet blue.
Crimson painting on the evening sky.
Lark or Dove, you can hear them cry.
The dance is on at the Harvest Moon.
Yellow dresses steel the room.
When the season is older.
and the palette becomes duller.
We embrace the cast of winter
For, Blue
is the warmest colour
Hope
Two conversations, one café
On a rainy Saturday
“I lost my son recently”
She explained to the one sitting in front of me.
A torrid story of a young man
Led away by his addictions
Not his fault, she explained
A cost of his convictions.
I sip deep and reflect on her words.
I hear a man behind me say.
“Nothing could be worse”
Not related but how timely!
I continue to listen to those sat behind me.
I was only 12 and scared to go to bed, he said.
Filled with waking nightmares and a sleeping dread.
My father would enter my room at night and say,”if you tell anyone!!…
…I’ll tell them you’re gay”
The only way out was to run, run far away from those
things he used to say.
I ran from the devil… to where devils play.
His father left when he was young - the woman in front of me piped up.
“Well, what a hard life you must have since” - a comforting hand on her shoulder and a smile over her cup.
A tea cup clattered to my rear as the young man talking shed a tear to explain how he met the Highfield Gang.
They fed me for a while and kept me warm and dry.
But soon they had me running errands.
A high price to leave my parents.
The cafe door opened with a gush. Breaking conversation.. a sudden hush.
“He died last year, or so we fear …a boy drowned not far from here. Unidentified, but Clapham Hill Bill said… it was likely. Will. The clothes and the bag were just right… on the body they pulled out that night”
The young man behind was now in a bind thanking the man he was with.
“I can’t thank you enough for taking me out of the rough.
I owe my life to you. Detective Barraclough”
They stood to depart and so did the pair in front… all at the same time you see.
The detective said, “No problem Will… it’s been a pleasure”
Their eyes met over me
“Will…?”
“Mum…?”
The cafe in silence.
Hope in full voice.
An embrace.
Lives restarted.
On a rainy Saturday afternoon.
Laurence Meehan is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am in the Annebrook House Hotel. Visitors welcome.