Billow-shakers
hold tight to the corners
of cool winds,
in this season of forever.
Insects buzz, molars grind.
Waves ripple the tall grass.
Tide breaks over
Eden’s ancient gate.
And in far reaching fires,
we wait for Khamsin winds
and desert grains. To fall
dry as stinging rain.
Conceived in failure and
nurtured with self doubt,
amarulence grows.
A corkscrew of pain,
as vision tunnels to eye
the heart of a malcontent.
An anthem of injustice rings.
Mighty bells of
beaten copper and tin.
Out here in this static heat
a threat is annunciated.
Tremble as gentle anger
whispers your name.
©️ Dai Fry 1st February 2020.