The wind moves from west
To east and conquers
Land. The frontier breaths, coughs,
Sneezes white froth and spits
Black kelp, chewed.
Medusas fly. Up
Front the polished armours of fallen stones
Glisten, while above the Border
Collie packs the herd into a dense, hard
Grey. The smell
Of wet wool rises
From patterned mittens. I
Bend, kneel and depose
Another broken umbrella amongst
The many at the feet
Of an overflowing can. My
Heels are exposed, the Koolie’s teeth
Too, as I return to the evening quest
For an empty seat on bus 484.

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