Children on scooters, on hot concrete scootering. And bicycles with stabilisers squeak through a mass of mums and dads, eager to sit down before ice cream becomes a sludge. Black birds in regimental droves, with black beaks and shiny black tunics of feather, wait for discarded crusts from toddlers in oversized hats and drooping nappies.

A thousand on this stretch have gathered, freshly cut grass, and men without hats turn pink, particles of dust settling on greasy tattoos, bees dawdling fat with pollen gold. And across the Serpentine, Mayflies hover above patches of water, and pollywogs bob up and down between hot ducks and sweltering swans.

Further down, outside the big tent, horses stand proud in rows, with bright livery, groomed, riders prepared, uniforms pristine and sweating. Children laugh at clowns in blue and yellow fluffy bits, juggling oranges on shiny monocycles, smiling with sad red lips, on white sweaty faces.

In Hyde park.

ten quid for ice-creams,
my daughters in the summer,
back home to mom soon.