before a day of rain. I stood in the park, watching the canopy lit up with the promise of another summer. Old eyes dazzled by the light. Strands and cobwebs and specks of debris in the vitreous humour darting like birds, my own Plato shadows playing out on the skyscape. But I know the truth. There’s no way to clean the lights, this track only runs one way. And I remember the conversation with the gaffer at the start of the week, he can’t be far off retiring, the leaves all down in a carpet over his lawn after the blow this weekend he said, as though it was autumn already. He’s seen more seasons than me, he’s got the stare, each iris as faded and world-knowing as the rim of my ghost-summer sky. All the truths are in nature’s passing and returns, the river and season flow, my football practice glow.
