A Turn of Wrongs

The storm is an upturned oasis
carrying the rain’s watery diaspora
from here to there, there to here, anywhere

in need of cleansing; this is the world’s
replenishment, its unblemishing, heard
all over, never the reveal of error.

I haven’t misread the map:
the trees have changed places,
mountains plugged up their gaps.

Let me guide us alone: the two of us clash
like opposite compass points, leaving us dashed
in the centre against a perfect cylindrical rock.

Then the mistake rises like a slow dawn.
A crescendo, an unfamiliar trope:
the first notes of a roar, the judder of antelope.