Carrying the white basket on one hip

down past the empty vegetable garden

a low hum of bees in the flowering gorse

The path down here is cracked

concrete tectonic plates

Creeping Weed growing in the fault lines

Your sheets are almost see-through in the sun

my ribs ache with each reaching

raised wrists showing inverted light like x-rays

Behind me, a wet snort, pawing

the dog, carrying last night’s pork bone

looking for a digging place

I raise one hand to my forehead

empty basket hanging from bent fingers

ignoring the spreading damp between my shoulder blades

A bee has landed

on a floral sheet,

mislead

I watch it take flight, going up, up

disappearing over the fence

And, from somewhere out in the street

a soft cry carries on the breeze

‘Where’s the bus? where’s the bus?

where’s the bus?’