Anvil of the Sun

Image borrowed from Bing

Anvil of the Sun


The land is an anvil made for the sun to beat
green grass, gold grains, and working heart to dust
when July brings out the hammer of its heat.

The fields are silent but for the combing feet
of locusts’ need. The dancing wheat is hushed.
The land sighs beneath each hot percussive beat.

All blistered day air flaps in a shimmering sheet.
The sun pounds dry the seed beneath the crust
when July brings out the hammer of its heat.

The weapon shop of drought becomes complete;
dead spears of reed, firebombs of grass combust.
The anvil's red and burns with every beat.

Black soil is dead and void as old concrete,
wind arranges the dried flowers with each gust
when July brings out the hammer of its heat

The rain’s run beyond the place horizons meet.
Life does nothing that it wants, just what it must.
The land is an anvil made for the sun to beat
when July brings out the hammer of its heat


Joyann Jones

aka: Hedgewitch

Posted over on her site Verse Escape
Listed as #31 over on Magpie Tales 72