We sent word to the pigman
it being the fifteenth of July
the jet stream screaming north
of Oban, grey weather, dry.
What starts without precipitation
will become impossible to beat
even just sitting sweating
was enough work in this heat.
There were thirty-nine steps to follow
each one drier than the last
enough to make a thirsty man shout
‘Enough, my throat’s thistle-furrowed
put an ice-berg in my glass.’
The pigman nodding yes, drought.