July 1976

by Will Kemp

Everywhere hot, still.

A shimmer above
the corn melts

the blue cavern
of the distant woods.

Wimbledon pick-pocks
on television sets

as Liz and I bike
up Vicarage Lane,

sun flitting through
the trees, then run

over that striped lawn
to dive at last

into the Johnsons’ pool.