New Road

Day of the week: a road is being made
outside my window. Hot black desire is laid
in sheets, where once the farmer rubbed the soil
between fat fingers. That's covered now. Crops spoil,
left out to dry too long in the acid sun.
You can see - just there - his last words, left undone.

A magpie shrugs, heads for the lightning tree,
and mutters to himself of treachery.



© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All rights reserved