The heat reclaims the rain for the air.
Water departs every blade, petal, leaf
to become lucid particles again.
The houses are barely lines of gables and gutters.
Walkers stand in the middle of the road,
lost, confused; buses are singing like whales;
and the world is back to its protean
origins – ‘How quick that was,’ you say.
Looming holes, flowers, branches hang wetly.
Suddenly, the sun behind an old palm blazing
like some primal bird – an eagle or hummingbird –
each feather a silhouette of purpose or portent.
The sea’s sunk, only white noise and
a fringe remains – the surfers lean
on their cars, straining for anything.
The runner shuffling on the sand,
past tidelines of leaves and weed; in a moment
he’s an outline; then gone from us completely.
‘Swimming out would be the same,’ you say.
The shore declining until there’s only
waves and the reveries of your breath.
From the hill’s vantage, the surf club is a yellow slab.
Abruptly, the sun again: a high arch of fog –
and everywhere droplets flowing.