Sunshine By Daniel Searle

I’m out without a coat for the first time this year

The sun is warm on my face,

     baking on my back,

It’s glorious.

For fifteen minutes.

Now I’m too hot.

I feel like a salt and vinegar crisp.

     An angry salt and vinegar crisp.

Fuck off, sun! I shout at the sky, aiming a middle finger.

It’s because you’ve got ginger hair, says some racist idiot.

How does that work. Ed Sheeran is ginger and he literally looks like the sun.

He’s like the baby in the sun from Teletubbies, but with worse songs.

I call the sun a twat then stalk off back to my favoured bogland,

      And descend into a pond

      appalled.