August follows from a grey and fearful July – the closed hatch of cities in lock-down. Concrete and buildings hunkered under shifty, flannelette skies. The grime of recycled messages from haggard, mesh-faced leaders. Closed front doors, a stultifying blank.
Resentment breeds as fast as the virus itself. Different areas, different rules. Anger like pavement cracks clicking and snapping through the suburbs. Alligator grey. Swollen river grey. The chug and swirl of a familiar landscape turned undulous and monochrome.
My friend says she will write an article and send it to the newspaper. She’s a good writer. I remember her essays from school, her debating mind, her uncompromising tone. I applaud her idea. She will arrange her thoughts in strict formation like militant fighters, not like my florid grumpings. I can almost hear the whistle of her accuracy.
jagged sprigs, chosen bare-fingered, thinly pointed anger in a vase
Here in Canberra, we are still waiting for the net to fall. Through a chink in the curtains, six raindrops caught in the fly mesh, the early morning sun lies flat, a cast emerald plane beneath a haloed tree. Citrus and peach seep water-colour between tree branches. I tap my foot nervously.
Written for dVerse: Frank J Tassone’s Haibun Monday – August