This is the kind of country
that fogs windows with mirage,
making you see circuses rising
out of dust left on shelves,
horses sleepwalking out of corrals.
Heat won’t turn your skin
the colour of paprika, set
your throat alight, but will convert
you to its cause: To worship fire
and praise its ability to destroy
and create at the same time. Not long
after the forests and fields
have been razed, seeds will rise,
their first leaves cupped; as if in prayer.
—
Christian Ward is a London-based poet, whose work has appeared in journals such as Welter, The Emerson Review and Diagram. A chapbook, Slippage, was released last year from Liverpool-based Erbacce Press.
