June (is on fire and the Sun has taken his shorts off
and everyone is swimming through jets
of warm air as though life is a continual festival).
June is back late drunk on summer wine
hair like a burst rhamnus frangula columnaris,
more commonly know as a garden hedge,
(I’m getting botanical because it’s that time of year)
but there is nothing common about June.
She only comes round once a year now,
busy working as a global warming activist
reminding us the summer won’t last forever,
that together we can change the weather.
June’s that type of woman: reminds you you’re alive,
to open windows, idle in the grass for a while,
get the BBQ out, head to the beach,
go fishing in the unlikeliest of places;
for answers, June says, lie out in the sun
with your palms open and face up; listen
to mindfulness meditation in the supermarket
in the grocery aisle and just appreciate
all those fruits and vegetables doing their work,
without thinking about it for a moment.
McGuire, lively, direct and darkly funny.
Has two collections published with red squirrel press: ‘Everybody lie down and no one gets hurt’ and ‘As I sit quietly, I begin to smell burning’