Although I swore I saw red sky that night,
an army of rain came marching: every pace,
each beat, cheating the shepherd of delight.
I spoke to eyes in the even trapezium of your face,
your motorbike ticked, an impatient timer, warning
us, while we – oblivious – discussed nonsense in detail;
an embarrassing prelude to your body that morning,
lying under the oak tree, bare, a martyr in the hail.
I think about what I said to you, you to me
but cloudy sounds drown out words and voice,
and leave me slave to my lazy memory;
beaten by the supremacy of white noise;
I wish, though many winters have passed
those empty words hadn’t been my last.
Maybe if it hadn’t been raining,
I wouldn’t have got out of bed.
to cut and slice
Deep into green rivers,
making them turn red.
I’d think twice, if I’d seen the sun
Instead of puffs of hopeless grey.
I might have made
My last breath come to life
On a different day.
But the wind just kept on whistling,
Taunting me away from sleep.
And the sound of water
As it made my windows weep.
I didn’t feel cold anymore,
My blood ran away from my brain
And red drops reminded me
Of how I said
I hated the rain.