#56 Kevin Brophy 'Desert sonnet'

The red sand spits grasshoppers into the air.

Frogs are burrowed into the earth below us.

The snakes are even keeping out of the sun.

I listen to a child sing the alphabet,

getting it right. Another reads to me about

a clown with coloured balloons in suburban rooms.

At midday when the iron fences droop

I walk, hatless, to the shop, and at the door

where the panting dogs are lying on the step

asleep in their bliss, a woman from the shade

across the street calls, hey it’s closed, that shop,

and it is. As usual. I just forgot.

The walking back’s as hot as expected.

I cannot get the alphabet out of my head.