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
23/11/2017
Vivid!
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Thank you.
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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.
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Thank you arrisgrace. You pay me a great compliment. This is a poem I remain fond of. When I wrote it, I ended feeling parched as though was in it.
Thanks again,
Frank
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Yes, one who has relished walking in the forest, knows every line of this poem.
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Thanks again.
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