rain 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. Share this:PrintEmailFacebookTwitterLinkedInPinterestRedditTumblrLike this:Like Loading...