An Irish summer lasts three days.
Sometimes, if we’re lucky, one per month.
We get high temperatures
And we complain about them,
And then they go away,
Replaced by a wet patch or four,
Flash floods and lightning storms,
And a chill in the air in July.
But not this year.
Blue skies have burned bright
For much longer than we expected.
They think the water might run out,
Or the elderly will shrivel up
And turn to giant walking wrinkles.
The stones are literally splitting,
Children cannot sleep for the heat,
And, for some reason,
Teenagers walk around topless.
No one knows why,
So please, don’t ask.
This is not a normal Irish summer.
Everything is warmer,
Everything is brighter,
Everything is much more pleasant
Than we ever expected it to be
And no one knows how to react.
We don’t know how long it will last.
This could be gone in a week,
But I doubt that.
This feels like it will never end,
Not gradually at least.
Winter will come,
Snapping into place,
And we’ll be frozen there,
Bed sheets too light,
T-shirts worn as scarves,
Parched for water.
Just. Like. That.
And it will feel normal,
Like that’s how winter always was,
Snowy and frozen.
As if we get that sort of weather.
As if we’re that lucky.