You sit through a loveless day,
watching your garden
through a streaky window.
You see your bone-white
wheelbarrow
leaning against a tree,
upright on its two handles:
a mule performing
a circus trick.
That night, you find yourself
on top of a moonlit hill,
gathering black rocks
for your endless wall.
Plovers laugh.
The barrow is full.
You heave your load,
and Crack!
one of the barrow's wooden arms
snaps clean off
and over she goes.
Rocks leap out like rabbits
and dash for the dark grass.
(Did they spend an eternity
planning their escape?)
And so
you head downhill
for home,
nursing the broken arm of the barrow
like it is your own.
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