Like an ocean freighter turning ...

today fades slowly, eases into night.

It carries a ballast of fallen petals,

has no pilot but the weight of hours.

 

About this pivot point we have lingered

outdoors. Tracing – for as long as we can –

the sun’s arc across a gasping planet.

 

Woken by an insistence of wrens, we saw

daylight moon rising over chimney pots.

 

We have freed a frantic butterfly trapped

by picture windows, watched foxgloves cast off

their white and purple vestment, seen cheerful

hollyhocks burst out like splashes of paint.

 

We have watered the persistence of poppies.

 

The year’s high noon unfolds in a flag-hung

horizon. Once crossed, there is no going

back, although we know what’s coming next:

 

summer will harden, tumble – like bombshells

dropped on purpose – down the keel of July.

Quiet as held breath, a bat skitters blackly

out of sight. Tongue-tied, we cannot name it.

  

 vi. 2025