The reeds cloud the pond, crowded together
in judgement; the jetty is wet with sodden leaves.
It’s one of those days, shifting a bulk that knuckles
itself into the nodules of the spine, a grey cesspit,
a melting chessboard whose rooks have peppered
the fields with pockmarks. Over the mist,
a meadow is robed in a glumness not seen here
since a poor peasant harvest, when the lowing
of cattle was guttural, the sounds rolling over
ribs and tightly formed clouds that hang
surly in the distance. Now the countryside is a
curl of wet hair, the city the scalp, under
the thunder of the rain, a rut.
The day after, you pointed, said:
look, look, would you look at that.
On the wind chimes go,
after all that’s happened.