MOSS
Scraping into the silence of another empty afternoon,
the dogwalker, who never stops, hovers, explores,
runs through power-washes. That unknown neighbour
leans on the fence, weighs up, once overs the maze
of Accrington brick, confirms – it’s nothing but residue
after this dry spell and reckons on the amount
of silver sand needed. Together we lose ourselves
around possibilities – thin chisel? thick nail? Brush through
pound shops that might or might not be gone
now the pole’s skin has loosened in the grip of seasons
unused beneath patio rain. Still, I carry on. Even you
admit this could be therapeutic – all this tapping, a bit
hypnotic and linger for more of the action with tea
by the door. I explain, perhaps it’s my previous
in data-entry? Or the years lost to Tetris? Both now
enough of a distance to gaze into. Maybe though
sometimes, occasionally, you just need something,
like Everest because it’s there, so I hear. Whatever
the build-up shifts, lifts – effortlessly if you listen, slowly
out from the edges, somewhere along those lines.