Summer is something I had not experienced for a while, a forgotten part of myself.
The growing, sonorous, clamouring call of all that is warm and blooming.
These are feelings that cannot be felt at any other time of the year, a low ache that feeds itself on long evenings and lonely bird calls. It pulls you out of bed in the morning to the streets where everyone is grateful for the blue and the gold and the green that engulf the eyes.
Or perhaps not engulf, but catch you in the corner of your vision, in a cityscape where rolled sleeves and skirts move along the pavement and the concrete, the green of the park luring all with tin foil barbeques and clashing speakers and pulled out deck chairs scattered across parched grass.
A population intoxicated, with complete abandon, a dependency on sunshine.
The rejoice when high pressure raises high spirits
And then those evenings, where the richest, most somnambulant golds turn to the softest, most yearning purples
And all of your life, all summer evenings, all adolescent longing bind together in the space of two hours.