the fields are now rolled up in bales.
pasture is getting mossy underfoot.
windows in the sky move on like quail -
vanish when they are caught up with - or put
down from flight. gaps in the traffic open
onto worlds we have lost and give up
for dead. this land’s sleep will not be broken
till the north turns head-on and sun corrupts
the heavy night again. the stars confess
they too are nothing. the breeze is lukewarm
as it whispers of the cloud layer’s stress
above. insects die - go back to their dorms
as the case may be - while we face the dark
on Earth - headlights on - and double-parked.
11 September 2021