by Helen Patrice
The Sun makes one more try,
roaring like an old lion
bleeding light into the air,
dying by Celsius degrees
towards the dark.
The soft velvet of paw-pads,
not the steaming bite of hot teeth.
The garden droops from his last attention,
leaves crisp around the edges,
but green hearts glowing,
knowing the King’s reign is over.
They thirst, are patient.
Soon, the smell of rain
will outweigh that of dust.
Helen Patrice is an Australian writer living in Naarm on unceded Wurundjeri country. She writes poetry, short speculative fiction, memoir, creative non fiction, and blogs on WordPress. Her publications include Meanjin, Lady Liberty, Aurealis, Andromeda Spaceways, Metonym, Mattoid, Pandora, Interzone, and Last Leaves. She lives with her husband and adult offspring, and 3 elderly animals.
