In The Heat Of A Summers Day. Poem by Roy Storey

The flies dance
between the sun and shadow.
Dust floats on the air
round the doodway green paint peels,
potatoes roll out of sacks
across the open floor.
The old man sits slumped in a chair;
sweat rolling, running, dripping
down into pools in the dust;
only stirring when a fly
runs over his hands or face.
Hot, dry, the sun beats down.
Nothing moves, only the flies;
buzzing, running, rising, circling
between the sun and the shadow.