Liquid day of soak and quenching for the poor parched ones.
And for we, who pour the soggy-old through the leak and out.
Think of the slide of it – just think – what stuck so in the dry now rinsed off down-river.
Oh and while and under the tin-roof patter turns the crisp dry printed page, slow. Breathe the bow across string, rasp the pencil over paper, flicker the chesterfield, the fire-crackle.
What time tastes like.
