I think there’s a deeply strange sense of limbo in a wet day in July in England.
Most Septembers are beautiful “Indian summers” full of gently decayed mulched-up leaves and fragile spiderwebs, days that are deceptive in their grey and gold brightness. On dry days this is an effulgence that people mistake for heat.
This is we will always carry sunglasses and an umbrella.
This longed-for September is an intricate insect in the amber of the year – something we have yet to renew our knowledge of. Instead we’re left with the July that is.
In 2017, July has been full of summer’s uneasy passions: highly-saturated, humid, flat, bright planes of colour, or moody blue-grey celestial swipes of cloud and the ever present knowledge of wet.
The recent storms gave me a sense of equilibrium, not unlike that in my poem Libra. The sky during this early-evening storming, pattered down regular wing-beats of rain.
There was liberation in that rain, a reprieve from the heat.
The sky then was a strange, nocturnal duck-egg blue, almost alien and yellowed by the nausea of static before lightning. It had a fey quality, completely different to the firefly blue of a Fitzgeraldean evening.
If I had been bolder, I would have danced in it, there being no rain better. That is exactly how it feels to me in a theatre:
In a reverent refrain
Then the applause falls like rain
And I am clean again.
It is true that the rain brought me catharsis, but it also continues to gift me gloomy weather.
August may well be magnanimous and allow me to walk in the light again without burning so terribly. I have been stuck inside for most of this summer due to my reactive skin and it feels like I’m selling great bolts of the silk of time – of life – to an unknown buyer: but all this must be endured.
I just hope I don’t run out of patience.
~ Pola ~