The westerly that has flowed,
cooling and caressing,
lulling us through the small hours,
has warmed already,
heated by its passage
across the already baking land.
I should close the windows,
lower the blinds, to
exclude the gathering heat.
But the kookaburras are circling,
chuckling each to each,
marking their territory with hilarity.
The westerly is still welcome,
while it carries their song.
I wrote a lot of poems last summer that I never posted, many because they were about the bushfires. It takes me a while to process stressful experiences, to be ready to post about them. This isn’t about the fires, but was in the archives amongst them. This was written in one of the heat waves, when it was 30C + (that’s 86F to my American readers) by 0900 (9am), and more than 40C (104F) by mid-afternoon. This year it’s been very mild… so far…