Ticket to Write – 13

‘Weathering’ 2

I don’t particularly like this pair, but they’re in anyway for the sake of completeness.


And the sun pours molten gold
from the bluehot crucible
of the sky
And the cicadas roar outrage
from treehusks dried for weeks
& the leaves rattle autumnally
(so hot so hot)
& the asphalt bubbles up
like ectoplasm
from the chipsealed road
& stick-stick-stick like gum
on my feet with each step
& the land & sky & town all tremble
under the sun
& there is a long way to go.
My arms – neck – face – head all
prickle, damp but not cooled
fresh sweat, dry salt, sunburn
& then there is a bridge.
Shade underneath, & the cool breeze
rising from the river.
A moment to rest, & on I go.
The heat is still searing, but one
important thing
is different.



About coruscantbookshelf

"A writer is an introvert: someone who wants to tell you a story but doesn't want to have to make eye contact while doing it." - Adapted from John Green
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