Monday, 15 October 2012


In early April, cruel showers
turn and splash and fade,
without a plan or auto-cue
or credits rolling at the end.

No sleep is possible in this wind
- memories of camping rain
spatter and splatter and splat again
my rooftop tingling brain.

Memories! A tent flapping,
ghosts insistent for remembering
- calling but uncalled for.

Almost, they breathe, look,
aching for texture
as wind and rain let up.

1 comment:

  1. Just excellent; this is obviously a well-practiced poet, and someone who has studied great poetry and understands format. Plus, the language was beautiful. (Lichen Craig, novelist)