Tiny Dreamtime children, imprisoned in the earth,
pierce the little tree roots to sip sap beneath the dirt.

For seven years, cicada grubs, as they scratch and dig,
keep getting so much bigger, keep popping off their skin.

One final time, they’re out – up a fence, up a trunk, up a shed.
I collect the shells they’ve left, when their lead-light wings have spread

“Buzz buzz buzz,” they brush past my nose.
All-day the raucous chorus is a non-stop drone.

Above my ringing ears on twigs and sticks and leaves
a thousand bodies cling and rain their yellow wee on me.

Every year they deafen us. The noise is really bad –
crying for their mothers, screaming for their dads.

But, this year there are – none.
I’m surprised that I feel sad.
Where have the mad things gone?

Yellow Mondays, Green Grocers,
Black Princes, Cherry Noses

Much as they annoy me,
I hope that they’ll be back.

Without the story’s children,
so noisy, rude, and fun,

the hush of their absence
says that summer hasn’t come.

*Cicada Dreaming was told to Roland Robinson in 1965 by Julia Charles of the Yoocum Yoocum clans from the area around Wollumbin in the headwaters of the Tweed River, Northern NSW, Australia, and is used with permission.

Photo from Pexels by Ali Soheill