CICADIAN RHYTHM

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.