up from the lawn’s parched straw and departs; an olive thrush bounces
through the sour orange’s discarded leaf litter; but my pen
hardly cares to record such things, so alien is cool air.
After last night’s rain, the first for months, here’s a green tumescence,
a straightening of the world’s shoulders, an audible gasping,
momentary pause. Resuscitation, no doubt, however brief.
No fire, no persecution, no hungry flame. Not yet, not yet.
I lie down, face and nose rough upon the soil’s prickling stubble,
attracted by its itching rooted musk of personage, sun
sneaking through the clouds, hot on my shirt, and I wish this marriage
of dry earth and sky every success, a match struck in heaven.
But, for now, their arduous relationship speaks of neglect,
pain, punishment, of cruel abuse, though they can’t separate,
no question of divorce. How far they have journeyed together!
Nothing will ever change except the weather. Nowhere to go.
And suffering’s part of the deal, ain’t it? Love so commonly sears.
Submit now, pet, behave: do as you’re told. Give it all you’ve got.
An unlubricated drongo rasps, rattles in the fig tree
amid flurries of early leaf-fall. The hoopoe has vanished.
