Requital

Pot-bellied clouds, muscle in
on the horizon. An ash-tray...
overflowing, and a waste-bin
full of stories – never written,
letters – unsent.

All morning, sitting at my desk,
while him next door was mowing
his lawn – whistling his head off...
and then it starts to rain.

What would he do next? Go back
inside – put his feet up. Read
the paper, maybe. Me, I’m
harder to please.

If happiness were a place
I’d go there; take a bus, a boat
or a train. I’d get there, somehow.
Shame it doesn’t work like that.

The rain began deluging
the window; I recalled the night
we ate dinner in the garden
and thunder-spots sculpted circles
in our champagne.

I went downstairs donned
my wellies – psychedelic ones
with frogs on, and my raincoat,
then tore them off again,
plus my socks.

Flung wide the backdoor;
the smell of wet grass –
intoxicating,
as was the ditzy feeling
between my toes...
and I ran...as if my life
depended on it;
until I remembered;

cat was due at the vet’s
for worming injections.
Looked back at the house
you painted, all those years ago;
‘Bull-shit Beige’ - the colour,
or so it said on the tin.