Scene from July
Pink wall of glum sun with its birdsong blush
numb, like a cement bloom;
its scent a ruined yellow. This is not summer,
nor any truthful season. How life bends
to a weary scrape along a gulling codeine mist.
The blind days gaze like a black scrying mirror:
a glassy lie in a dusty summertime,
and the river runs a diamond spiderlight
below the heavy hill – a mottled grave.
From ‘Throats Full of Graves’, Lapwing Publications, 2013. First published at ‘The Poetry Shed’.