Rain again

rain again

the road winds round the battered elm, in reverence
a slip shod slapping bag of effluence ambles across the sand
stones clatter
when I think of the sea, it always from that cliff, that blasted
rock
this is not sea

dark red brick walls, higher than the sun, higher than god
in the corner, a grey black dust, in the corner, small boy
weeping
sticking coloured pictures on pieces of card
dim yellow lights and drab streamers
grey black Christmas
small boy weeping
I was always crying, I don't know why

never a single blade of grass
tarmac, concrete, red brick and iron steps
rows of brown wood desks and black slate - for writing
outside it always rained

my memory broken, recalls the white path across the cliff, the
strong
winds and the gulls, and the dark waters beneath, always boiling
that was sea, water filled with black terror and white fire
this is not sea, this brown flat sludge

driftwood beggar stumbles and weaves on through the morning
rain again
finding it's way to gutter and stream
hanging like crystal
from naked branches