The Fate of the Cicadas

The earth curdles, hurtling away into space.

Where once we awoke to lakes

Of sunshine

In the fields, now morning enshrines us

In alcoves of shadow.

The air, washed clean of desire,

Shines like a crystal window

Into blue distances:

We count tree-crowns

on far away mountains.

Cicadas wake chilled, jewelled with dew.

Too sluggish to start up

Their damaged machines

They stagger towards infinity;

And the church of their silence

Fills with birdsong.

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