Heatwave

Viento

 

Oh for a breeze,

a cooling, soothing zephyr,

a wind to play the rustling leaves,

or even a raging gust,

not reminiscent

of furnaces

and ovens.

 

 

 

Poniente

 

The wind blows hot from the West,

scuffing the dust along the ground,

carrying sand from beaches

into the streets of coastal towns.

 

Inland

it chivvies

the crisping,

curling leaves.

 

The sun is without lenity,

burning grass to brown wispiness,

hounding sheep to sparse shade

among the leafless olive trees.

 

At home

it's raining,

a living,

soothing rain.

 

Levante

 

The East is blown in by wind,

chasing the spice of tagines,

bringing the sound of Morocco

from narrow streets in our town.

 

'Campo'

the country,

or your place

within it.

 

The sun is unchanging,

beating movement down to lethargy,

forcing sleep on tired bodies,

behind the shuttered windows.

 

At night

we're sweating,

in writhing,

weary sleep.