…So when the water rolled down the curve of my nose,
I tried to look past the millions of drops on the glass
Or were they my eyes, pale and sunless,
Searching for the sun in the flaxen daze?
I was there.
Except the stars were blown too far.
The smell of burnt polythene, or was it my heart?
It was familiar – toxic and reeking.
Rains are meant to wash away,
But then they turn into borrowed tears of spite.
The feeling was acute.
Clouds made foolish patterns against the blue wall.
I sewed myself up with threads of reluctance
And promised to bear this through.
What beast churned, and churned within
As I breathed and whispered,
‘All this will be over soon.’
The ramparts had a dangerous carpet.
The cries turned into silent symphonies of the moon.
14 June 2014