These are the long days

Then out here, early one morning, it became British Summer Time, a temporal adjustment for making the most of the light we are given. 

Then sun leaps scruffily up, to the sky it takes fancies it finds another fresh and summerful day.

Then people relax all rhythm and malleable minutes.

Sun rise and sun set and sun rise and sun set and sun rise and sun set. 

Then the people seem prettier, pristine and free, looking lighthearted at the hours to love, the spectacle and summit of summertime rites, as seconds call sun to its glad carousel.

And inside them the soul is a clock with an infinite face.

Then they can become the sun behind the sun. 

These are the long days.