Hot Night

DIANA BISHOP

 

There is no doubting

the world hurts.

Forest fires flame and scorch,

volcanoes erupt and scald.

 

Above us stars burn out,

so does love:

we carry the scars.

 

The night is hot.

She leaves without

washing the dinner plates.

He has hidden the car keys.

A small girl cries in her cot

woken by shouting.

 

‘Hot Night’ was commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition, April 2012

 

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