The sky holds the bad-tempered sun,
in one of those moods;
the dry land is burning.
Humans walk along in a forced daze.
Animals take shelter.
Birds steal old chips.
The fiery winds blow through the cities,
new hairdos flee freely,
cracked lips are now “in”.
Winter white skin turns bright lobster pink.
Different pigments burn;
natural tanners strip off.
Burning hell is the new spring, so it seems.
Bushfires strip old towns,
heartache echoes loss.
From out of nowhere, he moves so freely.
Sunnies for Mr Cool;
Donning linen luxury.
Moving in a saunter to defy the sun.
The sky looks down,
wishing for rain.