like yellow paint, like dark-roast coffee

This summer is grey, like the clouds hiding the sun, like the cold sea.

It is yellow, like the paint shining in the can, spattering my fingers and my legs and the Nokia rubber boots that I inherited from my father.

It is red like the raspberries and wild strawberries I pick in the jungle in the bottom of the garden.

This summer smells like a thousand flowers and dark-roast coffee. It sounds like birds and silence.

This summer is cold but soothing.