The Hedgerow birds are wilting;
and even the circling hark
gives them no alarm.
The hot irons of the sun
are smelting bones.
This listless stupor
threatens to unwind the mainsprings
of joy.
Birds do not believe in weather,
each moment for them is a picture
in a gallery of extinctual reactions.
In the throes of a heat-wave,
only humans
have feelings of discomfort
know it and question it,
think of it as a pleasure or a curse.
Animals have more faith
in the next moment,
and the next, then the next.
Categories:
mainsprings, poetry,
Form: Free verse
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.
Categories:
mainsprings, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The Hedgerow birds are wilting;
they will not sing
and even the circling hawk
gives them no alarm
for he also is weary
and tries only to catch a cooling breeze.
In the shade of a white oak
I hunt for that same cool air
but I am too low to the baking ground,
the hot irons of the sun
are smelting bones.
This listless stupor
threatens to unwind the mainsprings
of nature itself.
Of course, birds do not believe in weather,
each moment for them is a picture
in a gallery of extinctual reactions.
In the throes of a heat-wave, only humans
have this prescience of suffering,
nature has no memory
just a faith in the next moment,
and the next, then the next,
unto death or release.
Categories:
mainsprings, poetry,
Form: Free verse