In the clifftop garden the flowers
are orange and yellow
but the stream is dry
She gazes into the future
I stare into the past:
I need special glasses
but still the image is fuzzy
We play crazy golf:
it is a close match
Out at sea
a hazy grey horizon tries to make contact
with reality:
the tide is turning
Steps up from the beach were steep:
halfway we met a goat,
munching like a machine
at melting grass
In the church they play
american tunes:
black and white
wrong and right
Outside on the country lanes
It is hard to see clearly
or follow dark directions
A violinist passes us,
heading north
or possibly east:
without a conductor, it’s hard to be sure