Through all the downfall
we drive with Moonflower,
poppies splashing rain-streaked Monet,
wheels sluicing curtains from puddles,
the struggling wipers.
Turn up the heat; let's pretend
it's a baking day.
Turn up the music: blast out
our blues with its loud play.
Though violent rain retreats to drizzle, cursing
(lashing hachures within my cares
drag hard and radioactive as deceiving
Chernobyl clouds - Santana's dark energy).
In the dripping pinewoods,
at the end of each pine branchling
a thick cluster of needles now laden
with bright yellow-orange, swollen catkins,
fat clumped like some undersea polyps
above the cone, ready to dust on a dry day.
We look up to see each needle bears
on it's very tip a silver droplet quivering,
Here and there they slip, drop and renew:
eyes meet in smiles.
We stop and stare into puddles, blurred
by raindrops, as if we were standing in
'The Wood Between the Worlds'
and jumping-in would get us somewhere.
Stumps, torn and twisted, assume the forms
of eldritch creatures. A dragon claw embedded
in the middle of the path...
We find the good swing and I push you
high above the sand-hill falling away.
I launch you out, but you return, again and again.
On the way back we take the woodside path
a chain of puddle-lakes
bordered by dog-rose, forget-me-nots fading
and so many flowers ready to appear.
My hat is sodden, yet we hardly feel the rain.
..
YOU ARE READING
Walls Fall
PoetryLetting go of Fortifications and Armouring. There are treasures to be found therein. This is the softest M7 walking in a bare skin. There are no similar stories
