On a sunny day like this we like to pack a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine and go to the park. There are swans in the lake and rank feathers on the lawn, which the children roll in, shrieking. One can almost see the water fowl inwardly shrugging, and rolling their eyes. We are only a mild annoyance, and, apart from the time some fly-tipping fuckwit dumped a car battery in the pond, poisoning them all, we do them no bother. I can see why they tolerate us, though I imagine they fantasise about dive-bombing the lot of us.
The gorse is bright, bright yellow, and humming with dragonflies.
On a day like this we like to take a blanket and some strawberries and a book each and we climb till we’re tired or bored, and we find a nook out of the way. The grass is deep and full of moss and hidden rabbit holes. It’s perfectly dry and soft. She lies down and groans with deep joy. We’re only able to do this a few times a year.
On a day like this it’s hard to believe in sickness.
The only downside about this powerful sunshine is that the mud by the swan’s nests gives off a stink. It gives off a stink.
On a sunny day like this it’s possible to get to the very top, to the very edge, and look right over into the blue. There is no past or future on the edge, only the blazing present.