The monotony of midday summer heat
flattens my thoughts. Spreads them thin.
I take a sip from a tall glass, ice cubes
clink and ring like wind chimes.
The sky is the colour of Dad’s blue eyes,
and I’m not going anywhere today.
My back, up against the sun.
It’s sticky sweet on my neck.
And I’m shelling peas.
This is magic. Just watch.
Press along the seam – and the pod
opens like blind innocence.
Six (sometimes nine) shy green peas
appear between my finger and thumb.
The dog next door is sniffing at the fence.
I have fluffy slippers that look like that dog.