they promised us "no rain" but

here we are

at the aptly named Water Lane

where the trees, be-whiskered of finger,

stroke their leaf free, would be, chins

bemused by roots once dry and thin now

fat and drunk

 

so let’s begin

 

we passed a fox

we passed a hound

but then a somewhat grisly mound

mechanically rendered

and from that point south our path

seemed lined with bobbing, robbing, gizzard ripping

grey beaked strippers

 

the fields, boarded, tortured, gasping for air cry

”enough”

but barely has their breath condensed

than heaven wrings another tide of ill concealed contempt

 

so there,

in the midst of urbane beds, hip hop sheds and looking up

a pair of legs that stalk the concrete raft across

the links become lagoons

where every complex, golf or god, surrenders

to the mentored runes that follow every bulletin

 

yet despite the wonder of all to see

we turn away

to define our own stupidity

in a round of yellow car punch