It is a hot wind

It is a hot wind

Acrid with the scent

Of desperation

Carried in the dust

Of the desert

Dried from a carrion sun

Old bones ground

Into fine ash

An unclaimed deposit leaves

A bitter taste furring

The tongue

With the grist

Of the defeated

Seared through

A relentless sirocco

Beaten are the withered

Fruits

Of the desiccated

Passion is lost

In flight

Only the husks

Remain

Tossed as chaffe

Blown in the face

Of a sun god

Spitting broken

Promises

Hotter than

A lost summer in

A market garden paradise

Waiting for a

Climate of change