Saturday, 26 July 2008
August, and once again we find ourselves
Trapped and encircled by these steep-edged hills.
We are dying, as the airless heat fills
The bowl upto the brim. The lime trees heave
A sigh of utter weariness. No one
Moves. The whole town's an elegant middle-
Aged woman suffocated with pillows,
Laid out like death. Drops of perspiration
Ooze into pools at the roots of the hair.
I sit, motionless, hunched in a langour
Of directionlessness as I swelter
In the insoluable, gasping for air.
No voyage planned. No ship, no strong, cool breeze.
No wind-blown sail. No new discoveries.
Posted by Roger Turner at 13:41