Crazy golf

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