These days are sadness at its most vivid.
You have, at dawn, at dusk, the prayer call,
the Ezan , the Takbir and the Shahada sung
like smoke caught in the heat of the throat,
a prayer-wisp, a delicate meandering.

Then the bells from St. Sophia will start.
Their self regard rattling the valley
with sudden gusts, a pressure change
of sounds hanging at their temperatures,
the clatter of a looming summer squall.

That’s the hurt calling you across the valley.
There’s nothing to do but drink it in;
it will or won’t be waiting, but you, you
for the very first time You, have wet skin
and drying eyes, the glitter-kiss of first rain
dancing on the pavement, the roll of thunder

like laughter, coming when you least expect it.

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Matthew Henley’s first collection, Beetle, was published in 2014 by Templar. He currently lives in Sarajevo.