Mosquito Wars 5.30 am, Montevideo

Seven, eight, nine perfect welts. White
Havens of blood-sucking frenzy. I scratch
The contemplation of a skin stripped bare
Of: nut-brown ale (natch); must (natch).
The whisper of cowslip in an unsung
Heat-haze. The threat of dandelion.
Round tables with forked iron breath.
Last orders. Breath like fire-flies in
The night made of ice-cream. Coal
Black ice-cream. Swans gliding down
A black river like a living movie from
The days before film existed. Swans
Like a mobile in a child’s bedroom.
Nut brown ale (natch): must (natch).
The snap that brings a day of bright
Terrier cold when you walk past spider
Webs frozen in an image of optimism.

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