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Poems
by Charles
Jobson
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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.