Vespers

On this page, blue as a jay’s wing,

some wisp-edged cirrus merge

to orange underbelly, glowing

 

then disband to drift away.

Only the axe of unclothed heat

stays throughout our longest day.

 

Sweat prickles my forearm,

the grass is weasel-brown.

Yet oaks are green, their silent hurt unseen.

 

The glap-glap lapping of a pool:

a lizard at its brink,

flicks an uncool tongue.

 

Hanging like a kiss on the horizon,

the lantern of Venus

hours before dusk prevails.

 

Listen. Stone curlew wail

in darkening distance.

We lie down on our backs, look up

 

watch a lemon slice rise and fall,

seek Cassiopeia’s seat

in a bowl of untainted night.

 

vii. 2026 

Where we parked the car

the grass verge slopes ditch-ward. A redstart black on a rooftop. Its foreign song pings off pantiles, interrupts skylarking. Back along the road a circus settles down in a field. We saw three camels on their way. Our rest is here, with the constant hum of bumblebee in lavender. Already your second book of the holiday. My half-empty water bottle and this blank page. Both of us in shades. The warmth on our legs. Two miles off a lighthouse turns its beam, as if by standing still there is more judgement.

 

that lonesome brimstone

unfolds its yellow flutter

hot for pairing off

 

vi. 2026