still densely cross-hatched by light (as though overlaid
by a streetgrid) these roofs jutting up from the gardens,
corrugated, iron, nearly choked by climbing vines

and bleached shrubs, are hard to miss. at the gate
one's finger shifts to the left—the allotments
edge on leveled land—while to the right,

on a side lane, the first shadows appear. smoke
gathers in the paths, swathes the slabs, stacked
planks hang in the air, varnished wood

comes further on, summerhouses, weather-sealed.
hand-cut pipes protrude from the walls, emit shimmering,
rushing gusts of heat-exchange, the gliding

of sensitive materials. the callused finger moves on again
along the paths with swept edges, towards the plots
and grassy banks. trowel-grooves, fresh sown lawns,

the cisterns darken. only the air wafts, and the current
flows on through the gardens, as the lights
on the posts begin to glow

English versions by Suzanne Buffam