summer parchment

the summer parchment is beneath my feet
and I am writing you a letter

from the stilled wetness
that is no longer stream or creek
algae chords a trail of texture
forming words to etch with the spiked point
of a stick broken clear from its skin
to show itself in dull brown
and brittle nakedness

the language of a lone cicada
is the constant undertone
of distant muttering that emphasises
silence and intrusion
when listening hard reveals only futility
inside a sucking wave of dried heat
that inhales all hinted life
but the sound of breathing

bled from the sun the page
is a stained and squinting yellow
flecked with the dirty green of moss
gone dry beside pallid lichens
and the littered decay of trees
no longer pointing body and soul
to a sky whose only mercy
is the promise of coolness in the night

I will blot the words with dust
raised on a breeze of fool illusion
turning round and around
like a child at play and toying
at the idea of a break
outside the monotony of the heat
and dry of thirsting days

I will sign with the sagging leaves
that reach down
prepared to fall
to the summer parchment beneath my feet

as I am writing you

© Frank Prem, 2001

6 thoughts on “summer parchment

  1. Wow, Frank Prem, you nailed it with this one. It is filled with the truth of summer segueing to fall, vividly beautiful and yet primal, almost visceral. I loved it from beginning to end, no line out of place nor word lacking, it is perfect. Thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

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