The Wet November

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.

Ciaran Burke