on Queens island – nothing ever lasts
and cracks appear between the bricks
almost
before your eyes and here
and there the rippled water spreads
across the broken tarmac. Here a wall
with turrets and a village burned
by reptiles that were never there.
The brambles straggle, harsh and grey.
The ragwort’s mirrored in the pond.
The coastal storm has landed yesterday
and spring comes late this time of year
in salty air – the concrete slips
and slipways sag and roots burst budding through
the ghost
of terrazzo paving, leaving bare
the village that was never there and
over them – the giants stride – three legged , yellow, tall and wide,
with letters and an
ampersand. This cafe’s shut
and so is that – as is refurbished Caroline
She’s locked – a lack of visitors perhaps
this island’s built on sand and mud
and spring comes late this time of year.
Most
collapse is natural – this land is drained
soon to be drowned. It’s sinking now,
this unreal outpost like an aria,
and spring comes late this time of year
the moon and mire
move slowly through the branches of the buddleia
A G 14/03/2019
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thingstothings 