The heat, like a sheet of melting bronze,
sears against the skin.
The bay, holding sway to the east,
beckons the western mountains.
Beneath the balcony, eucalyptus branches burn,
ten thousand crackling joss sticks.
The incessant, choral cicadas
stretch the limits of northern patience
as the cream and terracotta church
sounds its muted bell for noon.
Neil Crawford
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/attica-at-midday/
