A SUMMER BURIAL : 25 lines of Blank Verse about a mourner at graveside in the Summer heat.
A sun-weary breeze pants against my skin
raising salty pimples of sweat
that gather together in the confluence of my shoulder blades
creating miniature streams which trickle down my back.
The inevitable damp, dark patches of moisture soon appear
staining my shirt under my armpits and at my waist.
The muted droning of the minister
murmurs monotonously in my ears
and, like the distant chatter of cicadas,
its existence is only really noticed when it ceases.
Almost noon,
the red heart of the day,
under a cloudless, blue sky.