Every Minute Is A Tender Twig

Mother moaning on the tiles,
Praying for a visit from Nature,
Which, like the swollen Summer
Night, may never fully arrive.

The screen door’s kicked in.
Every bed has been sprayed.
Our final supper of five is still:
Something’s gotta give.

In the zeppelin cloud’s shadow,
I feel cold and wait with camera
In hand, to snap the heaving beast,
To prove that I, too, am alive.

The recycling bins are full to the brim.
The hazel rabbit stares ahead:
Summer heat’s a slow, heavy train.
Something, something's gotta give.