They all work to keep

They all work to keep the rainclouds away,
because the heavens aren’t open and there’s not much else heaven besides.
She thinks she might cry at the sight of home,
it’s just dust in her eyes.

And all this would best be seen from a great height, or on silent film.

They all have their rows out in the street round here,
“I don’t want to hit you again, I already hurt my hand.”
And the sun reflects in a wing mirror
and that man next door tends his weeds with care.

All this would best be seen from a great height, or on silent film.

White campion,
‘For Sale’ signs,
piles of black bags.
I just realised: everything connects, the things I don’t know still surprise me.