Trucks

The clouds shift past like overloaded trucks. It’s summer. We are standing on the kerb, hands joined, waiting to cross the road. Our island has drifted off into the sea and nothing is steady any more. The sea is rising so we can hardly see the road, the gutter’s full too, washing over the kerb. Wherever we look there are queues of waiting trucks.

Where did we start all this? Where were our hands before they met? Where was the island then? Where was the sea? The trucks are loaded with clouds. Our hands are clasped under a weight of clouds. Soon it will be evening. Whatever happens then, these are our eyes, these are our hearts and hands.