Steadied on the roof,
feet anchored in tiles,
clay dusted green
with slight reddish marks
where they staved off elements
of yesteryear.
I was here last summer
to see the trees’ plateaux.
A different perspective
sent surveyor’s notes
as far as the eyes could scan.
It was true, from above
the neigbourhood was unchanged,
same washed cars
prowling weed ignored drives,
yet the people had altered,
drawn inside as media groundlings.
I slipped a hand in the eaves,
mountaineered to the chimney
and left a small weathervane
where the aerial once was.
