Midday, and only
English fools are out walking in the heat
along goats’ paths of slippery shale
in this thorny wilderness.
Chafing crickets
chorus under twisted trunks of olive trees,
trees ancient and black with small green
promises of olives
Silver-grey leaves
provide some shade for sheep, huddled so close
you could lie on them like a ripple of blanket,
if it were not so hot
By the stinking lake
huge black bees gorge on the buddleia
above the vicious spikes of yellow broom,
the bold, purple thistles
Disappointed,
we turn back to the road. This is not a place
of beauty; it smells of dust and decay.
Mosquitoes hover over the still water
A lizard flicks through
dry grass. We disturb a crashing mallard.
The crickets reach a crescendo of contempt
Creatures must come here to die.