Summer

Listening to the sounds of his country,
childhood, summer
Once more on the radio.

Tears swell over bloodshot eyes,
Lips quiver
At a voice of his ilk, his time, his stripes.

One that heard the young and the old,
Offered itself as a stage
For an autistic youngster to sing.

The forgotten rhythms of an old way of talking
Charm the heart of a foreigner
Weary of too many me's.

A ditty rings out the golden hour,
Bittersweet as the picture of a gramophone with its shell-like horn
On white linen where a wasp devours a strawberry's flesh.

On watching an old Swede listening to one of the better programs on "Sommar," Sweden's favorite summer radio program.