Of rain, relentless
memories drumming on my taut skin
running in gurgling rivulets, seeking
deep subterranean places
dark water, far beneath my groundsheet.
A turf-torn guy-rope
relic of a stormy past wound on itself,
spent, forgot, coiled without tension
white as a stripped nerve.
With intent I listen
there is no rhythm in the rain, no
reason or cónfine. I am choosing
storm-surviving, to hear my skin
streaming, streaming, streaming.
2012 © Andie Davidson
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment. If you choose to login - or register - on this site, a non-tracking cookie will be stored on your computer but your email address will never be published or shared.