Warming, by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

They say a storm is building,
thunder and lightning, a downpour,
the whole works. Bring it on, please.
Everyone waits, people pace
around the floor and sweat. Eyes sting,
search for clouds that don’t appear.
Weeks of heat bring out quirks
in staid and steady folk. Hidden
tendencies revealed, misanthropic
words mis-spoke. Lovers quarrel,
rent asunder by stickiness and lack of air.
Damp sheets tangle, cling, wrapped
round writhing bodies. Daytime workers
unable to sleep. Frantic. Each night,
bare bottoms bitten by flying insects
whining in through flung wide-open windows.
A storm is building, so they said,
five years ago. Today, the ground’s too hard
to care, to live, or bury our miscarried dead.

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