Air hangs heavy, fruit-luscious,
Dripping golden heat on parched grass.
A brittle breeze stirs crisped leaves,
Crick crack as twigs snap in forgotten flowerbeds.
Air hangs heavy as syrup,
Sweat-trickling and irritable.
Kick the dust,
Watch it settle,
Wish for autumn.
Perhaps if the wind were to rise,
And the dry sedge sing a different song,
And the weary hibiscus, left flowering alone, give up the ghost,
Perhaps if the air cleared and the rain fell
To wash the syrup from my eyes,
Perhaps I could open my hands,
Let go the crushed petals of fallen roses
And say, it’s over,
Breathe deeply the clean salt-tangy breeze from the sea,
And peer through the drifts of crick crackling dead things
To the spring beyond.