You are the mutable Welsh summer.
You come slinking, sudden,
to my door like the heat,
sure of your welcome,
because it’s never been
closed to you before.

Take my hand on a sultry night,
and we may run like alley cats
with tails entwined
swaying with the timbre of a
hot city at twilight.
I stroke, you purr,
goddess,
like a sleek queen cat.

Bastet, she was the cat queen,
wasn’t she?
She is you.
You humble deities,
you are sustained by the offerings
of love we your worshippers
let fall from our lips.

You keep us suspended on
a child’s mobile,
like the clouds in the electric blue sky,
dazzling-beautiful,
never touching,
months that don’t make a year;
because you always wander off again,
and I can’t keep chasing the sun.