Alanna Blake: The Heat Of The Day

Compatible? I'd hoped it was foreseeable.
Then came that searing day of sun in June
when we both thought it could be quite agreeable
to take a picnic, spend the afternoon

in some secluded and romantic spot
which should not prove too difficult to find
for lovely Yorkshire can provide a lot
of scope to leave one’s problems far behind.

We soon forsook the A roads and the crowds
and lay among the daisies in the dales
where lazily I watched the drifting clouds
and she with concentration filed her nails.

We ate the tuna sandwiches she favours,
drank chardonnay, although I longed for beer,
crunched hand-made crisps in mock-exotic flavours
that she adores, but I find far too dear.

I made a tentative attempt to kiss her
which she repulsed, and said she’d take a walk
as she was bored. She hoped I wouldn’t miss her.
“When I get back”, she said, “we’ll have to talk.”

I must admit I found the peace delightful,
just cooing birds, a whispering beck and me
compared with which all humankind seemed frightful
and she was not as lovely as a tree.

Then, wakened from a blissful doze, I heard her
complaining moans before she came in sight.
“What heat! A day like this is bloody murder!”
And, do you know, this time she got it right.