I look outside my window and stare the sun down with suspicion,
I make sure it knows this isn’t a friendly meeting,
Oh no, Sun, this is your interrogation
‘I know you’re game, it’s good that you’re here but…
are you really gonna stick around?’
I look around and everything tells me yes,
the sun shines even harder as if to prove me wrong,
I can smell sun lotion in the air,
strangers are ravaging ice cream cones,
friends have already posted pictures in their summer clothes
celebrating summer’s supposed arrival so hard
it’d make the other seasons jealous.
I want to believe the evidence;
‘don’t get me wrong, Sun, you’re a decent fella.
I’m a fan of your work but your commitment to England?
It’s been questionable at best.
I’m not sure whether you really want to be here,
does keeping us warm motivate you?
Is it what gets you out of bed in the morning?
I’m not convinced’.
The sun keeps on shining – a move of arrogance
I’m going to stay shining and there is nothing you can do about it.
I give in, during my 22 years
I’ve realised that arguing with giant flaming balls of gas is a fools game,
a futile effort and a waste of my time and the sun’s.
I congratulate it on a job well done,
concede and go to my room,
race to put my shorts on, snap my sunglasses on faster than ever before,
run outside and bask in the sun.
It’s warm, it’s beautiful and I,
well, I love it!
I head over to my mates and they look confused
‘have you checked the weather?’ one says.
I load up the app, smile on my face,
staring back at me in big, obnoxious font is
‘60% CHANCE OF THUNDER STORMS’.
Well played, sun,
you win this round.
-A.Webb (first draft)