NeuroDivine

Along the Barrow’s silver bend,
The hawthorn’s bursting white;
We bless the warmth this May has brought,
But why so flipping hot?
The cuckoo calls across the fields,
The midlands hum with light;
I’m grateful, Lord, for summer’s grace—
But still… it’s flipping hot.

I sit half-shaded by the reeds,
All wrapped to save my skin;
A hat, long sleeves, the whole array—
Yet craving sunshine’s grin.
A careful sip, a measured drop,
My thirst kept on the spot;
I thank You for the golden days—
But why so flipping hot?

The lads go striding by canals,
All bronzed and broad and free;
Some sculpted like the ancient oaks—
Some… less so, truthfully.
I watch them with a fond delight,
Admiring what they’ve got;
And still I mutter under breath,
But why so flipping hot?

Yet even in this roasting week,
Your blessings overflow:
The swallows stitching through the blue,
The barley’s early glow.
So take my thanks for all You give—
The gifts that warm my lot;
And hear my small, repeated prayer:
But why so flipping hot?

Reflection: Singing the Heatwave Blues (To a Stately Tune)

There is a distinct art to being an Irish dialysis patient in a heatwave. When the sun finally blazes along the River Barrow, the instinct is to rejoice. But when you are managing fluid restrictions by the “measured drop” and hiding from the sun under layers of sleeves and hats to protect your skin, summer becomes a masterclass in sensory negotiation.

This poem is written in the traditional meter of a classic hymn—in fact, it plays in the mind to the grand, sweeping English folk melody Forest Green. There is a beautiful, neurodivergent irony in using a majestic, sacred structure to process the very real, very sweaty comedy of a May heatwave: praising the swallows and the barley in one breath, and affectionately judging the “sculpted” lads striding down the canal in the next.

It’s a reminder that gratitude and a good, honest complaint can live in the exact same space. We can thank the Lord for summer’s grace, while still asking from under the shade of the reeds: but why so flipping hot?

Copyright ©️ 2026 Michael McFarland Campbell. Written during the late-May heatwave of 2026.