A green surge has overtaken the earthmover’s work,
weeds and grass mottle the unfinished roadways,
already some windows are boarded over, at night
it appears like a set from an abandoned disaster film,
dogs stray and nose around, the wind plays cards
with shadows, too young for ghosts the watchman points
his torch like a light sabre through empty rooms,
remembers days in the sun, bare-chested, counting
the number of blocks lain. There is no one to blame.
He waves at a passing car in the darkness, smokes
a cigarette, wonders where anybody could be going at this
time of night, kicks a pebble into the black. Later it rains.