Sitting in an English garden,
waiting for the sun.
Here it comes,
and here come all the sun lovers:
meadow brown and orange tip, cabbage white,
red admiral and peacock, and a fleeting sight
of the uncommon common blue.
Honey bees and hover flies busy by
with other flies I could not name or can’t abide
Slimy snails power nap in flower beds, slugabeds
hiding from the dying heat, waiting for the evening
to devour my bedding flowers.
A welter of creatures swelter like us
in the heat of the day that does not go away
in the dark of the night, though it might
when the lightning and thunder
baked under hot heaven breaks over the heads
of the creatures and flowers that cower in beds,
flaking out, baking, as sullen earth hardens
in Paradise regained,
in an English country garden,
waiting for the rain.