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

23/11/2017