By Tim Kindberg
is pouring in a slow sea piled high
cuddling the houses
in a red-black burning embrace.
Its fingers flow through windows and doors
(it never knocks)
to touch the soft lives,
laughably soft – within.
It preserves kitchen scenes,
lovemaking, twists of realisation
in exact negatives of brittle stone; steals
moments we would not want known.
Somewhere the mountain smokes,
unconscious through the blur of ash
of the brutal rivers it has spilled,
blows its black rings to the sky.
Lava's gone by morning,
left us shiny from a too-hot iron
neatly pressed for work
on the trembling streetcar.
Even the smell of singeing has fled
through the windows; soap lingers, now.
Deep beneath the crust
is red splashing mercury
dancing below our graves.
Tuesday was as uneventful as Monday except that I got even less accomplished, because I went to the park thinking that the thunderstorm watch was going to send me home within the hour, but the rain didn't arrive until late afternoon, so I got to enjoy the summer trees. Once again the cats did not enjoy the thunder, but it wasn't a long storm.
We watched the Cleopatra episode of Secrets of the Dead, then we watched this week's excellent Clarke-centric The 100 and the new Blood & Treasure, even more Indiana Jones than usual. Here are the otherworldly pseudocraters of Raudholar, the red hills, near Reykjavik, a stunning lava field that feels a bit like being on a different planet: