I’m tired of clouds and their preludes
to great sorrow. There are always alternate
stories, and it takes a quiet eye to shape
an azure presence within the gathering

drama: I’m kicking a muddy ball against
a wall, taking it in turns, left foot then right.
I’m Lorimer, Bremner, Giles and Clarke.
And it’ll always be one-nil. I pick up

all the fallen Victoria plums. We shell
peas on Sunday mornings. I’m harboured
by tortoiseshells, peacocks and red admirals
at the buddleia. I can talk about clouds

for as long as you like but tonight, rest.
The evening sets beneath a bloodless sky.