the grass verge slopes ditch-ward. A redstart black on a rooftop. Its foreign song pings off pantiles, interrupts skylarking. Back along the road a circus settles down in a field. We saw three camels on their way. Our rest is here, with the constant hum of bumblebee in lavender. Already your second book of the holiday. My half-empty water bottle and this blank page. Both of us in shades. The warmth on our legs. Two miles off a lighthouse turns its beam, as if by standing still there is more judgement.
that lonesome brimstone
unfolds its yellow flutter
hot for pairing off
vi. 2026
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