This rumbling fatigue
steals my concentration
like my thief of comfort
it leaves me tilted
so that my body bends
under the unseen blows
My reddening eyes
and leaden lids seal me in
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This rumbling fatigue
steals my concentration
like my thief of comfort
it leaves me tilted
so that my body bends
under the unseen blows
My reddening eyes
and leaden lids seal me in
A thousand midges dither
over the backlit willow
like dust mites indoors,
but these caught between
the invisiblity made by the sun’s
low-lying positioning
and that cut-relief of shade
created by the hilltop villa
in this first phase of evening.
If there is an English word
for this heat please send it to me
along with recent pictures
of you being buffeted
there in the autumn break
as a male storm blows over
I am a short distance set
by an internet search and flights
I sit in a festooned bar
watching football from London
as my sweating groceries lounge
in ten cent shopping bags
and I am avoiding the hill
the heat and the inconvenience
of my body
This nuclear sun over Nerja
seems to be a false detonation
just short of early November
sent with no sense of guilt
It sears the white on sunbeds
and encourages black beach vendors
equally fearful of seasonal clouds
like those dropped by atomic gods
experts at praying against shade:
stay caught on the peak of the hills
tied to the now-misted heights
by beaded string to rosemary.
I have only seen rain here
once before
when hitch-hiking
across the north
I was on the run from banks
A night around Bilbao’s industry
on my journey east towards
the mountains’ clear attraction
of duty-free heights in Andorra
where gold trucks delivered cash
and the coffee was twice as much
But now I look out at the tarmac
and at men in their high-vis attire
me
with more baggage than last time
and heavier weights on my ankles
Back then I owed a thousand pounds
but now a hundred times more
which buys me a lounge pass
a front row seat on planes
and the back row comfort in cinemas.
For JD & GD
Here, in the sun,
I tally their fruit,
counting the oranges,
among a thousand leaves,
as my cup of tea cools:
I reach into the tree
and pull, with twists,
a dozen, perhaps,
which are set to gravity’s
hard rule, magnetised
in the white fruit bowl.