Conflict?

In summer I long for winter

Wishing the barbecue's smoke

would coil into a winter mist

While wandering in the serpentine gallery

I glide instinctively to a stop

Instead of the painting's vibrant strokes

I wish for stains of black and grey

Within the rows of brand new piano books

squeezed into dark corners

I wish for some leathery bindings and pale prints

Though the fresh paper cuts somehow

fascinate

As waves of slow hymns seep through the gates

I only wish to hum hurriedly and headfirst

to myself