Christmas in July. by Gwil James Thomas

And finally there was sun… 

Ripples 

in the River Avon 

g l i s t e n e d

like diamonds that summer evening –

as Miles wandered outside grinning

with two fresh pints of Czech larger, 

having finally closed his kitchen

for the day –

but before Miles could say

anything to me 

his boss then stepped outside.

“Doesn’t it get boring going out

every night?” Miles’ boss

asked him with a smirk,

as Miles paused before saying –

“Well, it’s a little like hanging up 

your Christmas decorations

every single day.” Miles replied.

And I couldn’t help but laugh,

as I rose my glass like it was

Christmas in July

and I too had lost myself

and the whole point amongst

all the festive mayhem,

once again.

“Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician originally from Bristol, England. His poetry has recently been featured in Expat Press, Rusty Truck, The Beatnik Cowboy and here. His fourth poetry chapbook Writing Beer, Drinking Poetry will be published by Concrete Meat Press later this year. He currently lives in San Sebastián, Northern Spain.”