Drought

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The last of the frogs are still singing 
under a scorched parasol of dark
there is no sleep, no respite
just an invisible muscle of heat
that enforces insomnia

sight tapers to long dead stars –
fused to constellations of dust
leaves rustle over concrete
across the infinite gloom
as if their brittled shapes were the ashes
of a requiem for all life

dog dreams soar in leftover thermals
cats sidle, seeking cool brickwork
as farmers wish they could recall
every answered prayer
in exchange for green fields

existence stifles, drawing thick breath
heaven has stripped to its underwear
yet somewhere water is gushing towards
the throats of drains.

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