Rainfall in the winter
hits a rooftop, grey,
- a momentary treasure
clattering crazy slate
but, hey,
it’s running to the centre
of wells inside the garden
glassy, level, cold
until a human grasps at
meniscus, aims to cup
it up,
swigging for their pleasure
but when the pleasure’s ended
and hands have wiped a mouth,
how far that person gazes
to east, west, north and south,
for truth
and seeking purer water.
but, hey,
it’s running to the centre
of wells inside the garden
glassy, level, cold
until a human grasps at
meniscus, aims to cup
it up,
swigging for their pleasure
but when the pleasure’s ended
and hands have wiped a mouth,
how far that person gazes
to east, west, north and south,
for truth
and seeking purer water.
Made me go look up Meniscus .... lovely poem ...and the end is so poignant - we all look for purer water... nice work!
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