Summer sunrise, and the Blue
Mountain valleys, those
not on fire, doze
under fine white sheets of smoke
that settle them in comfort –
a slow start to a hot day –
but further sleep won’t come.
Already the orchestra is playing
a requiem of distress –
for the Titanic
or Hiroshima –
a million singing cicadas
displaced, they that survive
burning forests
they that escaped
the inferno,
hoping in their dim
sense of loss
that their friends
who didn’t make it
were at least intoxicated
by the eucalyptus fumes
smoke curdling their tiny minds
or that frenzied birds
wild with their own fear seized them
for a quick in-flight meal.
They buzz in languid loops
like Wirraways,
searching through the haze
for a runway
after the Japanese had gone.
Green Grocers,
Black Princes – I have never seen
so large a force –
they circle without purpose
for all is lost, no home,
shells so recently vacated vaporised,
compasses smashed
by gods that first lick
with orange tongues, then eat.
But take comfort, dear cicadas –
there is a rhythm:
you are not alone.
