So, it's September and you spend a week in a remote village in southern Spain. You know that there'll be an abundance of sun and warmth, but it surprises me that the day is shorter than in the UK. Of course this makes perfect sense - twenty-four hours at the north pole, and twelve at the equator - but it's an unexpected oddity.

I start the day with a brief cold shower and get to the rocky terrace with my coffee before the sun has begun to crawl down the wall of the nearby building across the street. It's 8am though feels earlier. In two hours this space will be an inferno, but for the moment it's still beautiful and cool.

For inspiration I read a chapter of Austin Kleon's book 'Keep Going' then pen a quick verse:

Garden palms rustle
Air whistles
Village squeaks, howls and barks
Night-drunk bats linger aloft
Rusting vans clatter
Through crumbling canyons
Whistling knife-sharpener on his motorbike
Tours the pueblos
Wind scratches across rooftops
Pale blue bowl inverted
Traps the day
I sip coffee on my terrace
Prolonging this brief coolness
But sharp morning edge of summer furnace
Eats shade while I write
Bleaching the light
Crawls across the terrace
Heat line approaches
Swarming under, over, through
Vestiges of the night
Hunting

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