End of summer – Southern Hemisphere,
morning sun filters through fawn curtains.
Rising quickly, along with day,
I let the rays pour in unhindered.
Brewing black tea settles me,
and back under bedclothes I sip slowly,
watching droughted grass, trees still green,
sky hovering in blue – detached.
Ouch! Blinding bedroom eyes,
as sun has no rest for me:
a visual voice saying “Time to get up,
I’m determined – I’m stubborn.”
I close my eyes in defiance,
so sound can predominate.
There’s occasional cars,
birdsong: mainly mynas.
Now I’m trying censorship,
by reminding myself that
“Billy Collins doesn’t like
poetry about cicadas”.
Of course the cicadas pay
no heed to his opinion,
and I can not deny their presence,
besides, I really quite like them!