From the yard’s galvanised subconscious, I watch
the kids retreat, wielding cartoon Excaliburs
summoned in, like their mates, from evening that pushes
with moths’ shoulders at the broken bobbins.
The sparse stalks seem to bend under its weight
but there’s no regret in this small theft of a moment,
understanding more clearly how we hold
to what is least permanent.
A patina of porchlight settles on a child's silhouette,
flywire-framed, Byzantine. Perhaps these acrid tufts
emerging to the rain are like laws waiting
to unfurl in some untended allotment of the universe.
How dark the Western sky is tonight.
A massive wingbeat overwhelms streetlights.
I can only tell the wind has come up
because the lavender is trembling, its tiny movement
a beat in time with the Pleiades scudding
like sleep across the lawn
ever clearer for being seen
from the corner of my eye.
Lost River Review June 2014