Rain on the outside, horror on the in.
That wind could cause such
alases and sighs but there was no resignation, no.
Knee deep in distant duck honk. What a waterway.
What a what would I have done in that one’s space?
It was an anniversary of sorts of the sound
of song sung once in a bitty chapel far overseas.
O ’twas England. This isn’t Eden, she’d said. Eat or be eaten.
And he put it to music. O ’twas
BEAUTIFUL. O ’twas a song for all reasons. ’Twasn’t it?
Now he was silent. Has the cat got your whether? he asked.
And indeed, she had seen a cat, bedraggled as a rock badger
fresh from the stream between two fallowed fields.
Now there you go again, he said,
relying on Nature. A lie, she said. Menteur.
. . .
He turned his head and half hid behind his hand
because who could look—the tall trees swished like Death
batting its lush purple lashes.
The very sound was wearying. They were the inside
wishing to be out. Would the rain fade, finally, and allow them
to state alas at last? And sing again.