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 firstname.lastname@example.org.