Itchy

Itchy—like a summer breeze that teases the skin,
A whisper of irritation, a mischievous grin.
It crawls over shoulders, down arms, and between toes,
A restless reminder that something softly glows.

Scratch the surface, and the itch retreats,
Leaving a faint pink where the discomfort meets.
Yet it returns, a fickle friend, in woolly jumpers and fleece,
In the scent of cut grass, or a bee’s uneasy cease.

We Brits know the itch of a woolly scarf too tight,
Of a midge’s bite at dusk, fading into night.
We soothe it with calamine, a cool, soothing balm,
Or a gentle pat, a quiet, patient calm.

So let the itch be a nudge, a tiny alarm,
That life’s small irritations can’t do us harm.
Embrace the tingle, let it fade, then sigh—
For even an itch tells us we’re alive, and we try.