i.

Something rises,
harrying the grass –
a cloud the height of trees.

Before our eyes
the earth gives up its water,
wavers. Where stood
the cobbler's shelf
now this apparition, this
watermark

levels with the air.


     ii.

Once barely wide enough
the road, shorn of its buildings
has grown to fill the space
under the awnings:
it is the view.

A sign puts its foot down.
Block 46-2, 46-3  
and then a little arrow
as if all it took were to look
harder in that direction.

But squinting does no good.

Beyond the shaved road –
so many coarse blades
fielding the sun's rays.


     iii.

Further afield
is where we've all come from,
sitting with our backs turned
against the glare. Cars
cooling in the morning's heat,
tea cooling on a platter,
clack of enamel or earthenware
 
on a tile countertop. Fibreglass,
melamine, green
on green on green.


     iv.

It's hard to look away, after all
from something unfinished

the way a leaf vacating
an old rain tree
still stops the gaze, though the ending
is forgone.

Where others have fallen
onto the narrow road
someone has swept them into neat drifts,
leaving a path

or a space, as one created by a force,
a field.


     v.

After the rain
at a snail's pace
they bear their belongings away.

For the crows,
a field day.