The sky is the colour of bruised fruit,
Like pears, dropped,
Too too many times.
A beast from some childhood nightmare
That has escaped from under the bed,
Now everywhere and nowhere at once.
The rain hungrily falls upon the window,
Clawing its way through the air,
Shredding the acacia and the slick black street,
Tearing up the world beyond the windowpane
To a frantic and irregular
I hear it scrabbling,
Scratching through the leaves with
The static hiss of untuned T.V.s –
That post-apocalypse sound.
Now I look out of other windows
At the lint-grey sky
And drizzle as fine as breath
To everything like disease.
My roots remember the rain,
© GB 2007