Hope Street

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.