Life nods in the shade where nettles grow.
The afternoon’s swim bladder hisses away
as in the stone trough, the water’s cord unspools.
In a fish-stained plastic bag, five flies hum and drone.

A fish scale in the trough is a bright jewel.

The smell of wet stone and of newsprint.
Of a crossword, halfway done.
(The solver’s dozing off,
taking refuge in the cool upstairs.)

The year is halfway through its steep descent,
relentless on its downward road.
The planets of the grapes here swell,
clear in the sun, and streak with colour.

Wasps feast on their early sugar,
sating this ancient hunger of females.
On the hot tiles by the shed,
a tin tub’s standing in the sun.

Beneath the blue sky,
in sun-warmed water,
they’ll soon be bathing
a young daughter.

That young child is me. (My children’s skin
is not one of fish scales.
To them, this sun-warmed water is a treat,
a happy chance of this brief visit.
They’ve never bathed in a pond
that’s above their knees.)

Hissing somewhere, a tap washes away
sharp-scaled grains of sand.