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.
