The old church tower at Koper,
a finger sticking at the sun,
while the old stone buildings ’round it,
soak the heat, must surely burn.
The green and wooded hills,
stretch out far as the eye can see.
A perfect painters horizon,
where heaven and terrain bleed.
The air a relentless furnace,
like the Devil’s very own breath,
sucks away all life and movement,
a precursor for fiery death.
As the bells of midday ring out,
there’s a stillness all around.
As the torrid heat bears down,
and consumes each tiny sound.
But Koper’s old stones don’t melt,
and the church tower doesn’t wane.
The day’s battle with all Hell’s heat won,
but tomorrow will start again.
©29.7.2019 Andrew Robert Chapman