Heatwave
The Hedgerow birds are wilting,
even the circling hawk
gives them no alarm.
All is too low to the baking ground,
the hot irons of the sun
are smelting bones.
This listless stupor
threatens to unwind the mainsprings
of a limber joy.
The hot sky has no memory
it plants one moment,
into the next,
seeds squish and crush
the earth with a jejune heaviness.
The day will end wingless
in pools of turgid body-sweat.
We will simmer slow then
wingless unto God we go
wet & witless.
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