'Come to the river', I hear.
So I go
out past loosestrife and nightshade
under the mackerel belly sky.
'Where?' I ask
when I get there. The rushes
tremble and hiss:
'Here.'
I wade in
up to my breastbone. 'Where now?'
and then I see. A metallic fuschia anomaly
caught in the side of the riverbank. Burst
inflatable foil. It is the number '2'.
Who are we
that doesn't consider this
in the merriment of our party? That allows
the detritus to wash up elsewhere
in some river vole's home or
anywhere as long as we don't have to think it.
I fold it up and apologise.
I am surprised
when the reeds graciously offer me
a gift of my choice, by way of thanks.
I wish for...
('Careful...' they say)
I wish for Love
to break everyone's heart again,
to flow like it used to
before foil balloons.
On my way back,
the branch of a tree tugs at my shoulder -
rains tiny red plums all upon me.
I have never tasted
such sweetness.
