Scene casting 1

In the village, scarcely a mile from a city,
where fumes of cars seem less apparent,
where stars are more visible, the freckles of space,
the nicotiana lingers,
opens pale petals ready
to greet the bleak Moon.
An Atlas moth will hover,  
wings half dipping,
dripping in shadows,
partially exposed.
The streetlight will lean,
over a pea-green rover,
made somewhere between  
nineteen fifty-eight and seventy-three.
The man who drives it is quiet,  
Scottish, five nine,
walks a Red Setter  
with sunset to sea.
I sit on the roof,  
like we once did that Summer,
hum the call of the insects,
evening languid and still.  
This is a warrior's vantage point,
the pounce place of a jungle cat -
I swallow my roar,
mold it into contemplation and peace.
The river curls over,
breaks onto roads,
fills up pot holes,
rejoins itself.
An owl dives down,
confidence palpable,
the mouse experiences what it is
to fly.