I am an unreliable narrator.

Downpour

We are walking along a straight path,
you and I, though no end of it is visible
from the other. It goes to somewhere
you think I'll like, though we'll sit outside
for the dogs, the weather close
on our faces. We will feed the cold
to ourselves in white wine spritzers,
and the dogs will not settle on the planks
where they are expected, tied up, to lie.

For now, there is much to see
on either side, though I do not know
the species without hindsight.
There is nothing usual about us,
though we are just the same. There is rain
in the air but it hasn't reached us yet:
we are sceptical of it now but will soon think
we knew it was coming; blame each other
for not fearing darkening skies.

We pass the temporary landmarks
that we will count on later as proof
we are travelling homewards in the rain:
a goose trips into the water that will be standing
with dry feet, its wings spread wide; a tree
where we checked paws for thorns; an open
lock in the canal that will be closed. The dogs roam
ahead now but will stay close when damp sheep speak
through suddenly quiet hedges.