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 down the middle of the road,
lost, confused; buses singing like whales;
and the world is back to its origins.
‘How quick that was,’ you say.
Looming flowers, branches hang wetly.
Suddenly, the sun behind an old palm blazing
like some primal bird – an eagle, a crow –
each feather a silhouette.
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.
We swam out past the breakers,
the shore declining until there was only
the lift and reveries of breath.
From the hill, the surf club is a yellow slab.
Abruptly, the sun again: a high arch of fog –
and everywhere droplets running.