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