Change

Around nine there’s the first whisper of a breeze
stirring in the sun bleached leaves of the gum.
Nothing comes of it; stillness reclaims the air,
the fetid night regains its grip on sweating bodies.
Beer is the order of the evening while smoking coils
keep the whining marauders at a distance. We wait.
The night waits. Passion waits: too hot to go to bed.
We sit on the back verandah listening to moaning dogs,
cursing neighbours two blocks down, a wailing
baby next door.
                           At half past nine the breeze returns,
teases our hair, our sweating shirts. Is this it?
The infant falls silent, the dogs stop yowling.
We listen to the whisper of the leaves. The distant
lights through the trees begin to dance, a screen door
bangs, a bubble of laughter rises, a girl’s hands
reach for her boyfriend. For the first time in days
a shiver runs up my spine as I watch the branches dancing.
We stand with the southerly ballooning our shirts,
the heat of the day at last sanded from our faces.