A Too Hot Summer

Last night whilst reading The Music of what happens, Poems from The Listener 1965 - 1980, edited by Derwent May, I came across this poem by Edwin Morgan, which feels very fitting for our fabulous and (almost) too hot summer.

 A Too Hot Summer

 A car came hooting slowly not upended
and it was a summer lane with limes dusted down.
Lazy boys yawned in tree-forts, tumbled suddenly
to the impertinence of the windshield and the horn,
for looking out it was a dog.

 How acoustic the recording-room was
till they slid back a noisy panel, shrubbery girls
in fishnets looked up with sandwiches, chewing
the shirt-sleeves of the producer there surely
but looking out it was a dog.

 The first pony stood, shook its reins.
The butcher's daughters cried sweetly to it
to advance, came off to tug, then showed
their rougher natures by the betting shop
and looking out it was a dog.

 Two lovers took the wood to pieces running
out of the quarrelling time from the landmark trunk
the lightning struck to the easy red cottages,
and all they had seen was the broken bark,
though looking out it was a dog.

 And the white glider came rather bucketing down,
a swoosh on a field of swedes latterly and fell open
somehow. Farmhands whistled, scratched, glared.
Who could help wondering about the man
when looking out it was a dog.

 Edwin Morgan.

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