On waking I would stretch then listen to clues while hoping in the curtained room the light blinded out for sleeping there was a life outside wind creaking white facia boards kamikaze rain drops dying relentless suicides of mass precipitation.
Even a blanketed sky gives a sliver of ragged silver illumination light bending through cracks tortured reflections on dulled walls peephole tears and ill fitting slats of wood that have lost symmetry conspiring with the light throwing patterns of perseverance.
Each day imitated the other crying in sodden impersonations pooling the pain in low points flooding untilled earth to reflect the grey heavens depressed results of depressions from the west the daily saturation overflow drowning our hopes with the source of life.
The road rambles into the decline,
One way to go, nowhere else to be.
The fresh water hurries to meet the sand, to wash with it to the sea.
Golden stretch in stone green embrace beneath a blanket of grey,
Torn to reveal a flash of blue,
and a golden promise behind the hill.