By Jane Frank.
A three-quarter moon is already hanging
over the old aerodrome and horse paddocks
but my head is crammed with the sea—
it’s sheen—mosaic edge against the island,
though I suppose these lilac-green grasses
are their own ocean and clouds of pink-
chested birds are gathering in the concave
between road and falldown fence.
Walking washes away the talk of loss
and change and loneliness so I step fast towards
dark clouds to the north. The horses have
already turned their bodies against them.
Lightning is a series of thin silver scars
but the rain will be short-lived. Rose-grey
birds fly across my path in the half-light
now, in a diagonal line towards the pines.