Mercury Rises

Outside, in the oven,

in the Guadalhorce frying-pan,

all the people, slow as treacle,

thinning blood with alcohol.

Tiny sips of fino,

mighty draughts of fizzy ale.

No, not Watney’s red,

or Indian pale.

Mercury rises.

On the pavements, in the sun,

on the pueblos baking streets,

dogs are sleeping, cats are creeping

hunting shade with water pools.

Tiny sips from gutters,

precious drops from dripping taps.

No, not garden ponds

or kitchen bowls.

Mercury rises, Venus wakes.

Inside, behind shutters,

in the darkened, cooling rooms,

all the lovers, bare of covers,

sharing lust with angry heat.

Tiny sips of passion,

feathered touch from cooling lips.

No, not moistened mouths

or writhing tongues.