Yellow

All night she keeps the car radio on,

driving from station to station. Bhangra,

long waves, police calls, Walking on the Moon.

In the morning her life is behind her

 

and light comes shearing through the Southern rain.

She stops to take pictures of a rainbow,

the span of it above the contraflow

so still, as if nothing has yet fallen,

 

not her out of her life nor this downpour

through all the empty places of the sky.

Daffodils wave their yellow heads at her

and suddenly she thinks of poetry:

 

beautiful things. The perfect words you say

only later, too late, driving away.