relentless summer
creeps
its weary pace
across the yellow lawn
past weedy clumps
of yesterday’s
fair shrubs and blooms
too hot to tidy
even water
you guys are on your own
I bleat
from comfort
of the aircon room
glass of something
chilling in my paw
a towel wrapped
round my
fevered brow
I’ll get back out to you
I promise
soon
with mower
Seasol
whipper-snipper
gloves and clippers
just not now
at full moon
with
the fiery planet
grilling us
from outer space
and what’s the point
in any case
of gardening or
god forbid
planting trees
in this time
in this place.
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