< Poems by Charles Jobson >


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.