First published in ?
Not the wall-to-wall yellow
we’d been led to expect the sky goose-feather grey
laden with the weight of an unspent sun lolling
back against the hills, the air thick, humid, heavy.
Trees and bushes, leaves
brittle, ash-grey in sympathy stand parched, sun-scorched,
exhausted and breathless, an occasional bougainvillaea
the only blink of colour in a goose-grey landscape.
The mountains, summits
haunted by ash-grey cloud, mourn blackened brushwood
ravaged by summer fires. A cinder-black tree stands guard,
bleak as graffiti scrawled on a newly-painted wall.
Geese in their v-flight
having long-since escaped to cooler summer skies
leave us to grey Syrian sand-storms goose-stepping
across mountain tops, feathers falling grey on to grey.