the thing about rain

The thing about rain is

the noise,

pattering on the roof

above my head as I type

disturbing the rhythm of my words.

 

The thing about rain is

the sound,

of tyres on steaming tarmac

outside my door.

 

The thing about rain is

the smell,

earthy, fungal, rich

reminding me I’m here

in the world, at this moment.

 

 

The thing about rain is,

the tactile memory of

streaming

running

surging

coolness on my skin.

 

I leave my desk and walk

to the forest

behind the house

ankle deep

wet moss between toes

wet hair, wet lips

tongue reaching out to taste,

what?

You’re not here

The thing about rain is,

it falls

 

 

 

mountain thyme

That race, the heat of the mountain road. The crash of my bike as it fell. A hazy cottage. Three walls and a hanging door. The shade of a Cyprus tree where the roof once was, where my eyes struggled to adjust, where half blind I saw a table, felt a chair supporting me, my hands gripping its arms. Before closing my eyes I glimpsed a woman ladling out a measure.

What could I have seen at all? Knowing only that she tipped the measure into a mug of milk, her voice urging – drink, sip slowly, feel the texture. Sip, and feel, sip and feel, sip and feel. My voice echoing hers, her words gliding over my tongue; a voice soothing a ragged throat, flowing down to a beating heart, holding it like a hand cupping the head of a new-born.

And all the while, the woman is building a fire. I hear the placing of sticks in a grate, the striking of a match, a brief phosphorescent smell, the crackle of pinecones catching light.

And later, remembering the coolness of the ruin, the smoothness of milk, and remounting my bike, how the sun dipped below the peaks, to the bleating of a goat, and the sweet buzz of honeybees on mountain thyme.

the thing about rain

The thing about rain is

the noise,

pattering on the roof

above my head as I type

disturbing the rhythm of my words.

 

The thing about rain is

the sound,

of tyres on steaming tarmac

outside my door.

 

The thing about rain is

the smell,

earthy, fungal, rich

reminding me I’m here

in the world, at this moment.

 

 

The thing about rain is,

the tactile memory of

streaming

running

surging

coolness on my skin.

 

I leave my desk and walk

to the forest

behind the house

ankle deep

wet moss between toes

wet hair, wet lips

tongue reaching out to taste,

what?

You’re not here

The thing about rain is,

it falls

 

 

 

My Eccentric Friend

Pour out your skies
of rain
damp tears, fetid fears
feeding the machine again
and then
there is this thing of
connectivity – do we need
more
or less
connection?
The confidence
to connect
or disconnect,
or reconnect, when connection
is required,
or is connection
the last thing in the world
we want.

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pie ‘n’ chips

Pie please.

Scotch pie. Pie ‘n’ chips.

Salt and vinegar, just the job,

wrapped in the news,

it cost two bob.

On frosty nights there’s

nothin’ better,

pie and chips and

bein’ the ‘gether.

goan doon Kirk Loan and

roon’ the bend,

clutched tae my heart

like ma best friend.

Ah fund a bench,

and there ah stopped

spread the feast across ma knees.

wished ah’d remembered

tae ask fer peas.

And now ma frozen fingers pick,

first the crust

and then a chip

burnin’ haunds and

scalded tongue,

salt n’ grease upon my lip.

Hot and steamin’

now the meat,

pastry-crusted what a treat.

A chip fer you

and twa fer me.

lick yer fingers,

gies a kiss

ah love ye doll

but widnae miss

ma Friday nights

wi’ pie and chips.