Another element

1024px-The_Sun

Many fingered like the sea

a heaving mass beneath the coping of the sky

sopping up the clarity with spongy paws

 

it wrings sweat from the veiled air

puddled in vague yellow unclear green

dripping dry and crisp beneath the tread

 

this heat slows the workings of the world

like syrup in the wheels and cogs

silencing even the irritable crows.

Heat rises

evening june

Heat rises from baked earth,

sighs in whisper of thistledown and butterfly wings,

bathes in gold the green beneath

more and more relentless blue,

seeps in the sweet, ripe smell of bird-pecked figs.

Leaves flutter,

flickering the shadowed sunlight where

a blackbird sings softly, a trio of notes,

listening in vain

for stream babble

to finish the line.

Last of August

The temperatures have been steady 95-96°F for weeks now and not a drop of rain. We’re hoping it will break tonight though we’ve missed out on all the storms recently.

 

Meadow grown back.jpg

 

summer clings

tenaciously

to this crisp-leafed

drought-cracked

dry-streamed world

 

South scything

no birds sing

to comfort the silent shrinking of the earth

mounds of dry grass

snake nurseries

bake

 

Bridge over troubled nights

The Oracle gave me a double puente, which the French would call a viaduct.

 

Heat crushes me,

hot winds lick my skin with coarse tongue,

ripping splinters from a rainless sky,

water, dust-dry

as thirsty mouths

waiting for a summer storm

 

~with you~

 

there was a time when clouds drifted,

cool and wet from the salt ocean,

heavy with the moist perfume of sea stars

and the liquid darkness of the night sky.

Now heat melts,

so catch your ship and sail away but

 

~remember this picture~

 

breathe in colour

as the animals do,

dark and gentle,

let it grow this earth, this life,

as the vine climbs

to the moon.

 

Screen Shot 2019-07-27 at 10.37.38

Screen Shot 2019-07-27 at 10.56.46

Screen Shot 2019-07-27 at 11.03.54

Heat

Third day of over 105°F and possibly hotter tomorrow. I reckon that’s what’s been wrong with the internet connection—it’s melted.

This evening I disturbed a very large green whip snake keeping cool beneath the origano I needed for supper. They’re not venomous but they bite and it didn’t go very far. Just behind the honeysuckle. It had a dish of water when I watered the froglets this evening.

 

Evenings of hot breeze, fluttering

wilted leaves,

watering froglets and their parched hiding places,

filling basins with well water

for birds and dragonflies,

pheasant crashing through trees

to reach the pitiful water-trickle

of the stream.

Nights still as withheld breath,

full of melting stars,

dripping into

mornings of no dew

and the birds silenced soon after cockcrow.

Midday stretches

boundless as a desert,

cracked and singed,

burned brown,

and the orange sun squeezes us dry

in its fiery fist.

 

 

Heat

1024px-Arthur_Streeton_-_Sunlight_(Cutting_on_a_hot_road)_-_Google_Art_Project

Light,

so bright

I hide my eyes,

but still the hand of heat lies heavy on my head.

Throbbing darkly like the sun,

shadows bob in and out of sight.

Flowers, an unexpected joy,

frazzle in their coloured crowns and gowns,

thirsty even after storm rain torrents.

Walking these hard pavements

is like walking the floor of Hell,

and the brazen coping of its roof

is falling in molten drops

on this dry, whispering world.

Hot Sunday

Photo©zoetnet

1024px-Terrace_cafe,_Rue_de_Buci,_Paris_July_2010

The man who roars above the high-pitched chatter of the crowd, to prove that his enjoyment of the enjoyment is more intense, is always among the clients—him or his brother or cousin or someone with the same ideas about the right way to behave in a public place. The woman who shrills on the same register as the whine of the mosquito is also here, drink in hand, or could be her sister or cousin. Mosquito woman and lion man lead the dance, sprinkling their drinks like pixie dust among the splinters of Sunday calm with their asinine braying. The shrieking laughter of their children, allowed to play their idiotic games with empty cans and plastic bottles while parents drink and bray at one another according to the rules of adult enjoyment, drills into my brain with the precision of a dentist’s drill. Oh death, where is thy sting? Come, sting liberally around here—this enjoyment needs you.

 

Dust, red pepper hot

stings eyes with sweat-stuck lashes—

spring seems far away.