the rain continues
but there has been no new reservoir here
for forty years
but what now drips
from this hungry victorian underground?
no hosepipe ban can fathom
all unmapped unmappable
unsupervised prediction
like hotel light wiring
all grounded fifty floors into eroded sky
in sinking county clay and all subsiding
all corn fields red kites
any given number of pheasants
this pastoral pompeii
we're on skittering alluvial
our vesuvial plane
this pantheonic interregnum
we're all waiting, waiting
on the great god meridional
to invent the new science fiction
a failed summer after
and i'm trying, trying
just for me to be frozen
holding hands with the river
in a pose that says:
it's all self-made
and shifting baselines
self-make it okay
and regardless
i'm happy for this spring, anyway