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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.