July wanders in with a swagger.
It’s heard rumours
about what summer should be
and is determined to give it a go,
even if the clouds have other plans.
The mornings start bright enough
to make you hopeful,
then dim just slightly,
like someone turning the dial
to see how much you will tolerate.

The air grows thicker,
not hot exactly,
but warm in a way
that makes you roll your sleeves up
and pretend it’s tropical.
Barbecues appear in gardens
with the optimism of gamblers,
smoke rising bravely
against a sky that keeps
clearing its throat.
Even the midges seem bolder,
claiming their territory
with the confidence of landlords.

But July has its gifts.
Long evenings that stretch
like they’re trying to touch
the edge of tomorrow.
Grass that hums with heat
you can’t quite see.
A softness in the air
that makes you walk slower,
linger longer,
let the day hold you
just a little past reason.
And when the sun finally drops –
late, reluctant,
still thinking about staying –
you feel something settle in you,
a quiet, steady warmth
that doesn’t depend on the weather
to be real.