It all seemed to make absolute sense
Where people sat while the constant and knowing chatter commenced
Drenched one way or a surefire other, these thunderstorms do hold favours for no-one
A pretty young wife and her smiling child sidled aside an altogether doting husband, where memories are oh so creatively made
A parade of devoted neighbours laughing themselves into battle – wisps of circling smoke attempting to choke those far less than savoury somebody’s the whole way out
All of it amounting to something rather extra special, held delicately within a summer solstice nutshell
A precious degree of wanton pleasure coursing about the entire avenue
When one madcap Mr Dufreyne taps out his silkened cigarette and stretches a flailing arm so as to disarm little boy Peters into finally throwing that flaked-out sheepskin
When they all get to look on up to these dry sun-kissed skies to realise that it all makes magical kinds of sense

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