On a humid day in May
The air is sticky and thick
Like clotted cream
And spits and spots of raindrops
Seep unintentionally from coalescing clouds
Brooding with moisture;
But not yet bursting.
Profusions of cow parsley plants –
Their heads now half-flowers, half-seeds –
Still bustle boisterously from verdant verges
Leaning outwards on either side of the path
As if aiming for a lacy embrace,
Whilst dimly droning dipterans
Casually circumnavigate their white floral umbrellas.
Swifts, too content to scream,
Scythe through the creamy air in long sweeps
Sifting their day’s diet from teeming aerial plankton.
Sheaves of leaves lie languid and limp:
Not exhausted by warmth
But overcome with wetness;
Leaving strings of pearly water-drops
Held gently in folded midribs.
Each droplet becomes a tiny crystal ball
Revealing a watery-eyed view
Of a humid day in May.