Summer begins again
though drought fries
leaves to crisps. Rain
gives up turning away
from demolition, trees
razed for tenements,
turning away from
people turning away
from care. Surface
politics, shallow
roots. Plants follow
their own route
growing in patches
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Rose petals curl in, the sycamore
gravitates to ground, pots fall
and I become a tree too, anchored
to a slate path with shovel.
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Theirs: serenity at dusk
when wholeness sits
a moment in the still
light. Calm song lilts
towards night
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When blue clears out clouds
when a solitary bird is seen
parsing the wideness
when a drifting breeze
drops dandelion dust
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Colour returns as gaura
become the butterflies
of an almost summer
patch and dahlias wake
to redden the verge
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Two moons appear.
One sits like a pool
on dark night leaves;
the other a glass pond
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From the window a sky opens
wider than trees, yet like a lost
limb their shapes appear when
the wind cuts a channel in air
and the patch catches breath.
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