Heat

 

The bitumen and the dry glaze:

heatwave is no respecter of persons.

Every object needs peeling,

eclipse of rational method in lethargy.

Birds stand, their mouths wide open.

Frondy trees wonder how much longer.

Helicopters falling out of the sky (like insects)

and the feeling of a long river writhing through the intensity.

Cardinal rule:

only be your own respecter of person.

As if there were any other choice: go inside the house,

the cool sheets,

the Satie music.

Listen, above the roof, how silent and unbearably bright.

Heat (January)

41 on 4 January at the backdoor thermometer. Write something on Facebook, words of warning or advice. The cats are inside. Their minds expand with the heat, causing shutdown and couch curl. Bird baths are brimming in shady parts of the garden. Though where the birds are is anyone’s guess. The streets are an oven. Shadecloth over all the tender plants. Their parts shrivel and curl inwards. Also, blinds and shadecloth at all the windows. Anything to reduce reminder of glare. Reading Mirka Mora and sipping cold cumquat cordial. About as much as overheated mind and languid person can manage.

Heat (January)

Outside at 5.30 is warmer than inside. Getting on the train’s like stepping into a fridge. It’s impossible not to like palm trees on a hot day. Even the palm trees in Bentleigh. January. People choose not to move. They’ve given up on their screens. Too slippery? First light hits fences hard. But the crepe myrtles are soft as raspberry jam. It’s a great ball of unending fire, reflected in the train window. Though even the sun will come to an end, according to my daughter. The carpark is irritated crows. Southland isn’t Paradise, but at least it’s a fridge.