How are Ya, Cicada?

(For Kirsty)

In the third book of The Iliad, Homer compares the discourse of ‘sage chiefs exempt from war’ to the song of the cicada.

And so we forget
the ambient beat of cicada, cicada, cicada
erupting from tussock, serenading the sun-spangled Clutha
on that heart-pulling expanse –
Hawea Flat.

In London, in winter, it is hard to remember
that jubliant cicada, nimble bird of Rehua,
crying kikihi, kikihi, kikihi
Hear me! Hear me! Hear me!

Singing, humbly – a backing track to the rising
summer lust, ozone-depleted heat and humidity

Until after work, from your Islington flat
amongst the cold city wrench/scrape/throb/debris
superfluity, supermarket, superhurry
We hear a lonely cricket
singing, singing in the thick of it

Go, cricket, go!
That lonely cricket,
He’s a local hero.