Jill McKeowen #2 Modulated Ashfield

Modulated Ashfield

Summer burns brick-red, bitumen-hard;

old pavements, patched cement,

cut light, spit quartz.

Shirts pegged to westerly winds parch  

paper-dry; dandelions flick

a yard of wired suns at my feet.

All day cloud towers build

over tiled rooves; next door,

renovation shells the pre-war flats:

drills scream, hammers bang and bang

to hits of the 70s-80s-90s,

a clamour of hot hours

‘til four, when tools are downed.

The wind shifts, cloud darkens.

Birds wing the silence.         From

an open window somewhere,

blue trumpet lines of jazz

float in jacaranda,

quivering now as shadows breeze

brick flats and washing lines, ripple

grass behind the sandstone wall

where cemetery dead sleep, inured

to modulating passions. Leaves

strew, the green sky cracks, and

rain-tempered notes

hit the road,

steaming.