Summer’s Day

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

It’s not quite as simple as it seems.

Your hair isn’t blonde as corn, it’s more like hay,

And you gurgle somewhat less than woodland streams.

I can’t lie out on you when I’m feeling hot,

And you don’t make noises like a swarm of bees.

You don’t remind me of some pleasant picnic spot,

And you smell nothing like an evening breeze.

You don’t make me wish I was on holiday,

You don’t rain on me when I wash the car.                               

You don’t spoil the Test Match, and a summer’s day

Is altogether nothing like you are.

And yet who’s to say old Shakespeare got it wrong?

You will still be mine when this summer’s day has gone.

1980

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PS

Wordsworth’s definition of poetry – “emotion recollected in tranquillity” – might pompously be ascribed to this one, though I suspect the skittish wag was winning out over the solemn loser here. I remember I was thinking of a specific person, though if this was really how I approached that relationship, you can see why she didn’t want to hang around. For all that, I meant it gently, and the final line still gives me a pang. All my fault. Could we do lunch again? Ever?