Steamy summer.

The ice melts rapidly in your glass.

All four blocks! Gone! Vanished.

Christmas in a heatwave…

There's no snow ‘round here.

Except for the illusive ice-cream,

which runs, quickly, down the happy child's arm.

Sticky…

Christmas in a heatwave…

And we must all get together,

to have the Christmas lunch.

A roast! In a heatwave!

The sacred Christmas lunch.

Where all the relo's gather,

with issues, unresolved.

To make peace for Christmas,

till the drinking makes them bold,

or, they've simply had enough

with Christmas in a heatwave

and all their stuff comes up…

“You did this”. “She said that”.

“What about the time, when?”

“Bloody hell, you give me the shits!!!”…

Remember that?

And in the full bellied aftermath of upturned glasses

and shattered maternal dreams of familial unification,

a lay on the beach and a quick swim could solve everything…

If only there were a beach…

Christmas in a heatwave…

There's no snow ‘round here.

© Copyright. Peter Healy. All rights reserved. No part of this written work may be reproduced by any means; including but not limited to mechanical, photographic, digital, Internet or other electronic process; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or otherwise be copied for public or private use; without the expressed written permission of Peter Healy.