Mottled bridges lunge between estates
married to nuclear two-up two-down lodges;
aesthetic refined to favour function.
Sweatpants dry stale on these smoker balconies;
weeds imitating flowers posturing weakly
as tower blocks, doily-curtained and gawking, fidget
aware of their incongruity.
The gypsies leave horses,
with mottled coats and shoeless hooves
they graze, matted necks naked on the grass.
Come afternoon, they are petted
by school-children drunk on freedom,
their ties yanked loose
and homework lost.
Tins and plastic supplement bird-food,
our cold, modern algae dead on the lake.
The mirrored high-rise grey jetties jut
tensely grasping fingers for the far-off shore
where no bridges rudely alight;
where the water glows chameleon green;
(and below, in the water, can be seen –
a crumpled Heineken, embraced
by crayon orange, torn edged leaves;
how queer! how intimate!)
The faithful lake assimilates muddying sky;
she burps lichen, hoards algae
to feed her stray, rumpled swans; the wanderers
who thought the greening rust, from a distance
was lusher than their grass.