The Other Poet

The other poet makes paper boats
he's on his knees in the impossible grass
impossibly green, the grass, like it's designed.
We're in this village, film set, these walls
of honey stone, these thatches, the road
curling to the lake side. We call it lake
we don't want to think it was man made
that engineers chose outlines, turned on the taps
sank three hamlets there, we thought we saw
their roofs, their spires. But no
we find each stone was unlaid, carried off
each door moved out, a stretcher borne by men.
The other poet arranges little boats
and sunlight blesses us like we knew it would
because here the weather's appropriate
ordered specially from heaven. The tarmac smooth
as liquorice toffee chews stretching from the church
to here where the other poet kneels standing up
his fallen boats and we wait on the steps
we all have folded arms, we know the boats
are important to the other poet, watch him crawl
with his camera, making them vast in his lens
and through some trick, they dwarf the church
look like they're setting off from their grass harbour
to liberate themselves on the lake
catch their bows on the spires.