(more)
7th February 10
Raindance
The too-green grass was wet with laughter
as much as with the slashing rain
- not that the green was visible beneath the
insulated overcoat of Scottish night –
but still, the flecks of Crayola Kelly, Hunter, and the
occasional Jungle,
splattered across hands,
now dispersing under the steady course of tap water,
were there,
engraved,
on palms and in minds and in star-dancing eyes.
Strands of field cartwheel through the sink,
mimicking a prior demise
with appropriate joy
as the head-over-heels, mudswept, windwashed
culprits
retreat, lungs inflated with lightning sparks and abandoned shrieks,
to the shelter of walls and rain-spattered windows.
