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In Carlisle

Jonathan Chibuike Ukah

The highlands of Carlisle are gigantic cakes,
where the clouds form some white toppings,
like coffee foams or white, delicate icing
that enlivens everyone’s bread and breakfast.

All the dews that have returned to Heaven
when the sun strikes out of envy and spite,
have lain low so high above the oak trees,
waiting to put a hat on the gazing mountains.

Often are the trees envious of the grey clouds,
dressing carefree in white and grey gowns
it’s just to scare the sun from another onslaught
against the flowers preparing to play and dance.

It’s time for the magnolias to celebrate in style
as the chrysanthemums stretch out their arms
to embrace the rain piercing the urns of air
which the jealous clouds have jealously fouled.

There is no need to slap silence on the cheeks
for watching over the legion of storms and rain,
the speech comes from the old chimneys in houses,
it’s the only noise that echoes beyond the city sphere.

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