MAL ROBERTSON

Eve

He points out threads I should have seen;
gossamer paddocks in Golden Valley,
my eyes still falling over the Western Tiers.
Cartesian, ex-farmer
predicts webs before they appear,
sun slung to the west,
rounding in milking cows,
cloven, thread borne, dewy lint
late lacing manna autumn pasture.
Some refractive fault of eye,
perfect play of rods on cones
in macular conception.
We are passing,
God's own commuter country
en route to Deloraine.