And the grey of the sky
Is the same pale grey as the gravelled ground that turns beneath his feet
Or perhaps a stiller hue of blue.
He picks out with his eye
The larger stones that match the sky;
Their grey, compliant pairings
Move and crack.
His bag creaks like summer rain on rock,
And from the sky
A pleasant rain descends, uneven
On the stones below.
Dark drops that graze his back,
And sticky clothes against pale skin
Protest and cling.
Murky droplets scatter on the path.
A pigeon, startled, coos and beats grey wings,
And slowly flees across the pale sky.
The shifting heads of grass by one foot and the next
Shake under pattering drops,
Shedding sticky seeds, to catch
On leave of weeds, which crowd the ground
That cracks beneath black shoes.
He frowns: a smell of pungent wetness.
Trampled flowers dull with damp and dust,
Crumpling, their stems yield to heavy feet.
All nature breathes compliance.