By Paul Bregazzi

Two women make their way
from the field above the garden
wending their way down the slope.

He places his thumb over the spout
of the spigot, fluming the water, bending
to see its run-off, the carry of some dust,
the soakage into the gravel layer.

The women trill themselves through the foliage,
swathing their hair as they come, tendrils
of them moving on the air, following
their passage.

He thinks the white root network,
slow walk of the greenfly, grains
of loam in his hand webs.