by Siddiq Islam

Each Sunday, in the heat of August,
Baba lets me off the farm,
So up the hill I disappear.
The parching sunbeams keep me calm
And make the town below look gorgeous.

We meet outside Kheturus’ orchards,
Climb the wall and ramble through.
Everything’s so real, so clear,
On August Sundays, there with you.
We lock our arms and wander forwards.

We never pick Kheturus’ apples,
Only eat them off the ground.
And look at this, my sweetheart, here!
A heart-shaped apple I have found!
You never did look more bedazzled.

Soon, we’ll have to climb back over.
You’ll cry again that we must leave,
But there’s next Sunday, and next year.
I’ll let you wet my cotton sleeve
And mumble bye into my shoulder.