the land is pulverised in Dog Days heat.
the hay falls in fields - the Perseids
too are mown in turn as the Earth repeats
its course in Space - scything fire amidst
fields of rock. iron drops by aerolite
to earth. the hot night’s silence is a weight
that has hit bottom - and has no more flight
until the dawn chorus is elated
at waking to coolness. our bucolic
is empty of slaves and bondsmen whose hunks
of song were forged in grief - apostolic
on the lips of others. song that was dunked
after reheating and hammering love’s
hard landing - chilled stars from a flash above.
20 July 2021