Sandbags dumped against gallery doors
as underground pools well up on the field.
Cars plough water in scimitar blades,
and then the rain stops and before the day fades,
the sun shines hot, blue sky is revealed.
Then something like magic begins on the lake
with whispers of steam driven off by the sun
rising in ribbons wherever it’s kissed
by the heat that is turning the water to mist
until everything’s hidden and everything’s gone.
There’s nothing but light diffused by an absence,
a note we can’t hear, with a hold that’s as brief
as the silence surrounding a total eclipse,
a short-term wonderment buttoning lips
like forgotten desires and ancient belief
where anything happening is hidden in mist.
The past and the present, seem just out of sight,
a sabre-toothed tiger could rest from the chase
where birch bark canoes slide through with no trace
whilst we’re rooted and silenced this side of the light.
It doesn’t last long, before something changes
the steam heat fading in just a few minutes
and the half magic goes leaving nothing but wonder
and swans wanting bread and a mallard’s laughter
and us, saying did you see it, really, did you see it.
© Rosie Garner
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