Heat

In days pre air conditioning,
The populous,
Those wealthy enough,
Would escape to the cool climes of their mountain retreats.
But today,
It is hot even in the mountains,
Where we presently swelter.

We are of the less modern ilk,
And scorn such extravagances as reverse-cycle air conditioning.
We live off grid.
So it is just hot.

No balmy sea breeze takes the edge off.
The water-tank filled swimming pool,
Is not even wading deep.
And the stagnant air is warm,
Beneath shady trees.

It is on these rare days,
Where lethargy and fractiousness reign,
And no productivity is possible,
That indolence and idleness should be embraced.

Midsummer Days

Too, too hot,
On these Midsummer days.
My children are inside retreating from the scorch.
For a while they read in various contortions of repose.
Then precariously they play a card game.
Until inevitably competition causes tears and fists of retribution.

Then outer clothing is replaced by splendid embellishments.
Expressive dancers slink to the beat of an ' eighties ' crooner.
Two fairies and a ninja live in an elaborate, fantastical world of their own creation.

On goes the pump to water the garden.
In knickers, jocks and singlets,
 Ear piercing squeals join the chorus of the petrol motor.
The shock of cold water on warm skin is too much.

Heat of the day

In the heat of the day I fail.
My mind and it's multitude of ideas are lost.
My brain finds itself a miasma of warm lumpy custard.
Humidity and thickening air weigh me down.
Yet I cannot enjoy a refreshing siesta,
The sheets damp - cling
The afternoon sun finds a slit between the blinds,
And finds my face
No respite.
Nothing to do but to wait,
Until the coolness of night.