A siren song of sticky faces for his majesty Mr Whippy,
Lazy tinkling notes above shimmering hot concrete.
Passing clammy notes and scrounged up change
For sweet white cream and bright red sauce.

The family picnic, packed with care
Only to be sat on, argued over, ice block robbed for hot car rides.
Blanket spread in blazing sun,
Handing out limp cheese sandwiches and suspiciously warm scotch eggs,
Sharing spilled lemonade with wasps.

Floral deck chairs from circa 1973
Leaning faded on rusted legs, protesting another year of use. 
Promises of new garden furniture, said the year before and the year before.
All too soon, folded away
Confined back to spidery sheds and dusty attics.

The joy of a paddling pool at any age,
Toes dipping in water, avoiding kamikaze insects.
Barbecue smoke curling through the air, eager noses follow. 
The smell of hot earth and crisped grass, tangy suncream and salty sweat. 

Raincoats paired with shorts and sandals, 
Stubbornly eating fish and chips in the drizzle.
Hopeful sunglasses tucked into holiday shirts,
Sit shivering in a beer garden as sun dips to shade.
Swift pints downed to stave off the chill.

Too long in arriving, too short in lingering.
Too hot, too wet, too dry, too cold.
It’s summer.
Our summer.