In that dark hour before the morning comes
bright Sirius arises; oversees
our hottest weeks, their breathless hush.
Listen. Hear those gorse pods popping open.
Touch the sticky birch. See willows
weep their seeds as snow and watch the urgent
dragonflies, who know how short time really is.
For day after day after day
a heatwave kneels on the land like a yoke.
The sultry air sinks, gets trapped, bakes the soil
in thirsty lumps. As cracks emerge,
there’s greater spin to play on cricket pitches.
The boundary is long. In blinding light
we are more often stifled now.
Cars turn into ovens. Air-con is king
of false relief. Still, simpler means exist:
paper fans and water pistol.
Orion’s dog howls for unlocked windows.
vii. 2022
