The rain falls on the land
And dreams of another life
Flit like a blackbird
Among the trees, now seen,
Now hidden. Imagined as real,
Yet untouchable, except perhaps
By some faith in the power of wishes,
To reassemble the disassembled parts.
A kind of conjuring trick
Where the rope is held and cut
Knotted and, with a flourish,
Is pulled through the hand
As one continuous whole.
Not amazing in itself
But made magic out of what has gone before.