Brooke Forbes

There’s a stillness in the change,

Beckoning the seasons forward,

Light to dark and back again,

Sunrise, sunset, moonrise, moonset,

The subtle tweaking based on daily repetitions.

But, also, there is a foreboding, a mild shock. 

How have we ignored the crispness softly falling away?

The subtle blooms in the field,

The subtle smell of desert cassia,

The lingering air-born collection of desert pollen? 

What we can’t ignore is this temperature rise. 

10-degree jumps within a day.

We Google weather patterns frantically and head warnings: 

Dry heat, it says.  

There’s small talk, 

There’s town chatter,

There’s a knowledge held within the trees and the rock:

Summer is coming. 

But not any summer: 

A hot one. 

In the desert that melts minds and bends metal alike, 

Plays tricks with hydration levels and resurfaces the memory of last season’s sunburn.

The first tan marks of this season, 

Are unwittingly acquired on a weekend stroll, 

Marking our skin and time as we know it. 

Pools are being prepared, or rebuilt from scratch.

Children search for shade in displaced places: an open car boot, a fading hotel sign, a branch-heavy river gum. 

A hot summer is coming, the internet warned us, and so did Mparntwe. 

It’s too soon,

Some say,

Replacing tea with lime soda,

Stews with cold salads,

Jackets with t-shirts.

I don’t think I’m ready,

Others sigh. 

There’s a silence,

It’s weighted. 

Sunrise, sunset, moonrise, moonset – it’s a pattern on repeat.

Take head in it’s warning,

The pattern will continue,

Until we can’t bear,

The unfathomable heat.