Rain slopes wayward, wind-blown,
To the impervious
Asphalt, concrete, grey town.
Indigenous watch on
Ash-faced, tannin teeth, sour.
Still born dreams of mothers
As smoke curling skywards,
Defying the shower.
But this rain could make new.
Wash clean. Bleach, windolene.
We could
And you pause as hope ebbs
And a thousand rain drops
Blind me with a salt sting.
A crane could take me now;
Head to the pavement, blood
on your hands, on These tired,
Old buildings and I
Breathe out again.
Comments
Alaw | June 29, 2008 - 17:19
I really like this. There's some great imagery and lines. I especially like 'still born dreams of mothers' and the occassional rhyme. I just wonder if the full stop after 'sour' would be there as it seems to me that the 'indigenous' are the 'still born dreams' and that these would therefore be connected? Then the smoke would 'curl' not be 'curling'? If not, I have clearly read this wrong. Still, a fantastic poem.
jennifer | June 30, 2008 - 12:26
Really like the stop-start quality, like blustery showers.
And the rhyming and humour here:
'But this rain could make new.
Wash clean. Bleach, windolene.'
A great read, I'm there!
jengis99 | June 30, 2008 - 21:22
pglennon
Thanks a million for the comments. Alaw, you are spot on both in the reading and the redundant full stop.