March 11th

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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