The Weeping Garden

It’s terrible! – all drip and listening.

Whether, as ever, it’s loneliness,splashing a branch, like lace, on the window,or whether perhaps there’s a witness.

Choked there beneath its swollenburden – earth’s nostrils, and audibly,like August, far off in the distance,midnight, ripening slow with the fields.

No sound.

No one’s in hiding.

Confirming its pure desolation,it returns to its game – slippingfrom roof, to gutter, slides on.

I’ll moisten my lips, listening:whether, as ever,

I’m loneliness,and ready maybe for weeping,or whether perhaps there’s a witness.

But, silence.

No leaves trembling.

Nothing to see: sobs, and criesbeing swallowed, slippers splashing,between them, tears and sighs.