#45 Memories of a city in the Far North

I watch dusk descending
before a mountainous silhouette
casting shadow upon shadows-
a reprieve from summer sweat.

A city flickers on.
In tune – a deft chorus.
Homes light up. Car lights on.
Street lights up. Guide lights on.
And lights
illuminating
the rust-stained sky,
glimmer into the evening
under a sea full of stars.

Or more like cane fields alit
Emanating too much heat.
Twinkling ambers into the dark-
nest-ling the now auburn sky.
But this is the wrong time of the year
in the city in the far north.

And I,
Am feeling soo hot
Like I need water.
Like aquarius in January.
Unable to bear
35 degrees
85 per cent
humidity.

Empathising with
the low
glancing over
coral seas.
Another southbound traveller’s passing nod.
As if warned:
“Avoid the summers in the north”.

These are memories of a city in the Far North.

And I am fanning
trickling sweat
breaking between
temp’l and brow.

Awaiting an evening concert.
No sudden moves.
No thought.
Begin.

In my
slow
swaying hammock
a broken metronome
forgets time.
The rhythm
to a cacophonous evening choir in legato.

Flying fox screaches
to-ambient mosquito hums
interject cicada cries
to cane toad drums.
A slither in the grass
sounds a curlew panic.
A flutter in the branches
Takes off into the darkness.

The soundtrack of
summer nights flickering
from my verandah.
And it is still hot.

This is the city in the Far North.
Waiting for the winds to change,
for long summers to end.
For days below 25 degrees.

For palms to bristle
in the breeze.

To cool the space
between temp’l and brow.

To give me reason to rise
from the sway of my hammock.

For right now,
It is early evening
It is the mid of summer
It is the city in the Far North.

 

-by Hans Lee

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