The English Heatwave

Am I the only one, for whom,
The summer has turned sour?
Memories have spoilt like curdled milk,
As dead heat stifles the grass
And fatigue sweats from every pore.

Summer is hovering lazily over us,
So oppressive heat gives tense opportunity
For frayed tempers and shrill voices.
No breeze nor breath looks likely
To threaten the simmering atmosphere
Which looks set in stone for months to come.

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