True silence is a thing unheard,
a wish by those who need it most,
but Summer silence comes so close.
Autumn clips and crackles like
the static of the radio,
Winter whistles ancient songs
and Spring provides its practiced choirs of
wildlife to sing along.
By Summer they are all quite spent,
the singers too exhausted from
the heat and light and happiness
to vocalise the land's content.
Summer silence buzzes with cicadas
like an unearthed wire;
early birds that chirp their conquests
of the worms; and soft, the sighs
of all the world asleep and smiling
coiled beneath a ciel sky.
(…now quiet enough to hear the thoughts
which hide beneath the idle chatter
Autumn Winter Spring provides…)
In Summer certain flowers grow
to soaring heights: perhaps you'll find
the southern yellow climbing rose
(an arbitrary name, in fact,
its point of origin unknown) -
it relishes the rampant sun
and seeks to claim it for its own,
will scale cliffs and mountainsides
for miles and miles with ceaseless hope -
a topiary Icarus
that climbs too far and chokes to death
above the troposphere, alone.
And fireweed begins to sprout
across the grasslands, first disguised
as red hibiscus yet to bloom -
it bides its time, it masks its smile
between the bulbs of sweeter things
until the heatwave hits its peak
and it unfurls: baring its teeth
all black as charcoal, breathes out steam
as petals hiss and sizzle 'til they
burst; erupts in vicious flames
that dance across the boiling air
devouring voraciously
all Mother Nature has to share.
Its tiny seeds are carried upwards,
up and out on plumes of smoke
to look down upon ponies rushing
to undo their parents' work
and giggle at their parting joke.
The sun is drunk on self-importance,
comes too early, leaves too late -
in Summer you will find a mare
who struggles underneath the weight
of its unceasing arrogance
at break of dawn and close of day
but, steadfast, will not show the strain;
who cares for both the sun and moon
in absence of her counterpart,
and tries with not much confidence
to find a deeper meaning in the
rearrangement of the stars;
who bears a greater burden still,
the desperate quest to satisfy
a question no-one else dare ask,
the guilt that builds through centuries
within her veins and arteries
and silts the channels of her heart;
a brilliant, broken mare who's learned
the warm respite of Summer nights
is nothing to be spurned.
She is silent as the season
waiting for the Night's return.