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< Poems by Charles Jobson >


AKG230710

Recollections of the southern hemisphere

A tinder dry path leads to the wicket gate.

Under a less boiling sun

a man sits in a solitary chair

hidden by the mesh of a mosquito net

 

contemplating the cool, dark

shadows of early evening,

ideas seeping into a maelstrom of thought,

restless time the only companion.

 

As the clock strikes seven

from out of the crepuscule

emerges a friendly figure bringing

a jug of water and a blue porcelain bowl.

 

Washing hands and face is no ritual

just a way of harmonising

with the constant rattle of grasshoppers.

As the night approaches

 

thoughts are left behind.

Images of a lost kingdom

and the waves of future

are all that remain.


Charles Jobson 2020. For permission to re-use contact  godfrey@wordsout.co.uk.