You don't get days like this any more

Reminded of those days you used to get.
Late spring, edging into summer. Ice-cream sticky air, and the hot days falling to a cooler evening. Back to where you live, far from where you spent the day. You're on the edges of things here. Walk in the scrag-fields round the edges of the street where you live. Empty house and cups of tea and the rich, pregnant sun making shadows heavier. Languid liquid velvet.
Pause here as you smoke cigarettes. Watch the days wind themselves on into summer. This is why you can't get these days now. They need to end, they need to be an ending, to open up into the vast and unexplored possibilities of summer, and who knows where you'd be at the end of those three months?
Summers now offer only watching the days pass by from an office or a shop or a petrol station or wherever you work, and you know you'll be at the same place come September.
But this is not now.
Something lost about this time. You know you're looking for something don't you? Something lost that was never found, and you can taste the ghosts of it on the seed-flickering air, on the edges of the white-flowered embankments of dead, dreaming lanes. On the stile you pause, and watch the path flutter through ragged late-ground to a violet haze of a wood, a cluster producing twilight under cut-and-bruise coloured skies.
'...something we will never find'.
Words from an old book, or something you read somewhere - something you wrote, summers and summers ago, and don't really remember now.
Walk back to that empty house made of wood and too many landings and lie in the dark of your room.
Late spring, edging into summer.
You don't get days like this any more.