Crossing

Six cyclists wait at a level-crossing,
three couples or something more random,
leaning into definition or from it.
This is a cinematic moment, asking
for a full treatment, a story to embed
itself in, or one of those shy epiphanies
needing a grand event to snap-freeze
it into poignancy. Your mind plays
with a hint of a sound-track, a faint beat
of helicopter-blades building to a hot breath
of threat or the distant but pervasive
roaring of cyclone or tsunami.

In the trick of a light-shift, the cycles
melt into horses, the riders sprout cabbage-tree
hats, their fingers fuse into gun-barrels
and the saddle-bags bulge with bibles.
You are sweating through an old and alien
skin, watching a catastrophe cantering
cheerfully up to greet you. This is what
idle moments are for, to ramble through narratives
or have them ramble through us: lyrical,
careless, innocent of any notion of pity.