More summer things
The rattle of cicadas in the morning like jostling coins on a bellydancer's belt.
The lazy purr of the fan.
Blue-tiled roofs, glinting like polished china in the sun.
From above, parasols honeycomb the street.
Rockmelon. Watermelon. Pink rivulets trickling down sticky chins.
A shard of ice in plum wine.
The coolness of cold soba noodles. The bite of wasabi afterwards.
Fans paddle the heavy air. Children slurp flasks of cold tea.
The sweet smoke of the evening's last fireworks.
A frog, wet and black, on a lilypad at night. Tailed, it is so young.
Its throat bubbles cautiously among steadier choristers.
Another night, the windchimes are still.
When will the breeze come?
The lazy purr of the fan.
Blue-tiled roofs, glinting like polished china in the sun.
From above, parasols honeycomb the street.
Rockmelon. Watermelon. Pink rivulets trickling down sticky chins.
A shard of ice in plum wine.
The coolness of cold soba noodles. The bite of wasabi afterwards.
Fans paddle the heavy air. Children slurp flasks of cold tea.
The sweet smoke of the evening's last fireworks.
A frog, wet and black, on a lilypad at night. Tailed, it is so young.
Its throat bubbles cautiously among steadier choristers.
Another night, the windchimes are still.
When will the breeze come?
posted by Miss Ember at 12:12 pm
1 Comments:
Oh for the distinct seasons of the British Isles! One can appreciate the green-soaked trees of summer when it is so starkly constrasted by the bluster and drabness of winter -- Sydney lacks those truely bleak, grey days. Even in winter the sun shines!
I do however take my wintery pleasure when I can get it and love a rainy Sunday afternoon and walking along a street of terraced houses, with water glistening onrusted wrought-ironwork, and the flutter of a bright coloured cloth from an open balcony door.
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