The soles of my sandals come into
harsh realisation with the ground,
grating against the uneven rocks, flecked with flint
and produce fallen from its tractor on high.
There is a faint, almost inaudible hum,
as the air vibrates, saturated with heat, greedy with it.
It makes me deaf to quietness.
As though a freshly tumble-dried sheet is being
draped across my head, again and again, it gets in my eyeballs.
A thousand heads of wheat convey Chinese whispers,
the hushed crowd, moving in unison with the breeze
they dance together without a plan, without choreography…
The sound is so much more than me, walking with purpose but
without direction, mouth closed in conservation.
There are crickets, who must be blissfully unaware
of the cliché nature of their very existence, particularly in poetry.
Each the conductor of his own magnificent symphony,
self obsessed dandies with solemn eyes and a penchant for the classical.
(I did not want to write about pompous birds pleased with the sun or other people involved. My summers were spent exploring wilderness in heat that made me drip)