A fascination with the black stuff,
the rake, the shovel, the asphalt—
what the road is made of, not dreamt of.
The way, in summer, it melts

so that you can press a finger in
and leave a print, grounded,
a map shared with the skin
in the silence of a village

before haymaking. Each nerve
and artery the summer rain cords,
the way the road works
on the earth’s go-forward,

bring the land growing through
bitumen macadam, a blur
of cow parsley, bramble
and drunk lovers in the verge.

Heat pools above the road.
The tyre marks become dark rivers
of the tracks that are made,
drawing our feet between places.