for the cicadas

what then, are the sounds
of this city?

is it the gentle tap-tap-tap of a million keyboards
(writing shakespeare, no doubt)
or the deep bass rumble of the chimneys
in a thousand asian takeaways?
maybe the laughter that
stumbles drunkenly out of the cafés
to swing, stagger and CRASH!
at our (suitably) jandal-ed feet
or the plainitive wail of a car alarm
being industriously ignored?

what then, are the sounds
of this city?

for the cicadas, at least here,
are dead.

[With thanks to “Taonga Puoro”, by Brian Flintoff]