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]