The garden I cultivated with such
intensity over four seasons has been left
to die, just as cabbages and cauliflowers
reached ripeness; the heat came
and I abandoned them, and the artichokes,
dry heat forcing Carthaea saturnioides moths
into the shade of the verandah, blue
eyes on their wings solarised,
unable to keep predators off. Wherever
I go to keep the electric sheep at bay,
has suffered the same fate. It’s in my head,
I know. A brutal agoraphobia.
Looking out to the hills, to the mountain,
I see it thinner than ever: stripped back by light,
sound waves. Looking up is like searching
a lightless pit: the sun just blinds
you, all is reversed. I am distressed
by water. Yesterday, I struggled
to halt a drip from the rainwater tank
alongside the shed, working in space
between tin and concrete, taking
my chance with snakes. I can’t
go out into the open where the garden
sits dry as dust. I keep to trees,
shadows, which are as illuminated
as sight to me. Planes fly too
low, cars scythe distant roads, a train
grinds through five acres at a time.
It’s all so close: I wish them away,
away from the brackish water
still struggling down the river,
swampy areas we scan close, crossing
bridges: ibises, white-faced herons,
spoonbills, plovers, avocets,
striding and picking out the last
takings before the final
drying-out: dust cosseting
the sun, easterlies driving
reflections away.