These Are The Days

It's eleven fifteen at night and every window, every door, in the house is open.
Night has yet a long time to fall.
Jesper's outside, painting the fence.
The neighbours are finishing their dinner.
I'm in the study, fighting away a moth that is drawn to the computer, it being the only light on the house.
The elder flower, covered in lice, haunts me through the open window. The smell, sourly sweet and more June than any other.
Yes, it is night, but noone seems to know.
It's still light.
It's still 22°C.
The birds are still singing, the blackbird showing off from the tv antenna.
It's impossible to wrap this day up.
These are the days that we will talk about.
These are the days that will be Summer.
These are the days that will seem to good to be true.
These are the days.