oh what a clamour

from tiny throats, two wrens shout,

a cat in retreat

nights too hot for love

waking in sweat-tangled sheets

longing for the rain

the summer garden

a snail serrating fresh leaves

an artist at work

stupefying heat

I watch geraniums grow

a snail labours on

folk chat while dogs play

an old graveyard, crumbling stones

ten thousand souls sleep

amongst seven hills

the rumbling of industry

the sweet songs of birds

grasp the baton fast

the clown laughs behind his mask.

pass it on, your call

summer rain falling

forest in burlesque – gold leaves

dark thunderous skies

waking too early

but how late it is how late

sand pouring through cracks

a morning sharp-edged

brittle as a long-stemmed glass

dropped on a stone floor