This poem was triggered by an experience in early July, during the unusually hot weather.
The undulating Jet Steam has seduced
the Linden into bloom with prolongued heat.
Cymes and their protective lime-green bracts
extravagantly jewel the darker leaves.
Intoxication beckons across scorched grass,
a smell of honey laced with lemon peel
entices to the Lime Tree’s shady boughs,
promising a splendid sensory symphony
of winged musicians mining that sweet lure.
Silence — a frightening, unexpected silence.
No breeze to whisper-stir welcome shady leaves.
No bees to eulogise the waiting heavy feast.
Nature caught misstep, how minuscule the breech
that massively disrupts ancient connections.
