English Summer

The fields are burned; balding and scarred, their margins hiding in shadow for relief from exposure.

The trees are wilted, their heads hung in tired resignation, melting and bowing toward the earth.

The sky is darkened and buckled, blued and annealed from the heat, stainless lustre bruised.

Poisoned yellow grass prickles in the breeze, dried spines scratching at each other and the boiled soil.

Buildings shift uncomfortably, creaking and ticking as they compress, windows hung open and roofs breathing back the temperature. Roads soften, rails grow, paths and alleys radiate.

Only the river offers respite, glinting and whispering in cool defiance, solace from the heat.

It must rain soon.