I shut myself, up in the cabin –
one generator turning over
coffee, flames, a computer to
monitor David Attenborough
and this virus ageing – it’s
the only clock, except that
segmented orange sun.
Whatever it is, it is coming.
I make a hot-spot, count
leaves ticking-over flat
boards. Every thing calendars:
trees, sugar, hedgehogs curled
round Cedar stilts, muttering –
When will it happen?
That was last Winter. We were all dressed-up, giddy with history, and posting kindness from ether…
The wind is changing.
You are swimming upstream outside
big-leaf canopy. I imagine. You are not
a: natural disaster, political movement
or search-party from my city-world.
I smell it, like a virgin-groom
skirting evening. You don’t fear
dissolving to Fern, forest-floor
but disappearing into walls,
It is here.
This morning, I looked out, inhaling forest.
Cardinals dove between portico-beams.
Rain fell warm as breath after noon.
I did not expect the change to come as it did.
No avalanche of light/ seismic fault-lines/ feet through ground
but ~ a dull, buzzing wave; gentle,