The Granary's Voice

With nightfall comes reflection.
Once the builders, traders, lever-pushers are gone
and have taken their noises with them,
we regain our voices:

The canal laps up whatever stars, leaves or raindrops he
can catch, then talks about becoming a river,
about hopping out of bed, one day;
of boldly flowing, where no bulldozer has gone before.

The Garden

Dragonflies zigzag

over unplucked strawberries,

brambles spill from flowerbeds

where bindweed triumphs.