by the feel of it we’re in for a storm
Stanley’s lying out on the lawn
I show him the lead; he shows me a yawn

same
this humid weather drives me insane
it feels like I’ve got a sponge for a brain

I say c’mon stan
reluctantly he stands
a petulant pet obeying commands

the walk’s a drag
a bit of a fag
air, bees, flowers – everything sags

I’m irritable, itchy
the horses by the gate look twitchy
everything, even the light feels glitchy

all at once a thump of thunder
gods in heaven bumper to bumper
(I’m way too hot to think of a metaphor)

a restless stirring in the air
talons of static everywhere
Stanley trots on, doesn’t care

I mean – sure he’s deaf
dodgy right eye, cataract left
but that’s the nose of a michelin chef

can’t he smell a storm a-comin?
can’t he taste the air a-thrummin’?
(why does he think we’re suddenly runnin’?)