The weight of water
the cardboard left out too long for the binmen
now is waterlogged, a new kind of watermark
it will be heavy to pick up, I think
and find it strange how water works
something which itself, is weightless, kind of.

ripples form on the surface of gelatine,
                it is fine and like the doppler effect somehow
but when it becomes encased within
     - nestles itself deep inside -
the fibres of its chosen carrier,
it becomes a weighted blanket of itself.
there’s something philosophical about that,
but i can’t tell you what.

The kindness of rain

Whirring of general kitchen sounds, cooker cooling down, click / brrrrrrrr. Resting my feet on the windowsill, a balcony of sorts. I watch as raindrops pitter patter on the discarded white plastic chairs in the garden below.

 

A salty feeling to all of me.

 

I stick my head out the window and listen intently as each raindrop drips, each droplet migrates, travels gracefully downwards, clunking along the tile slats and into the guttering, creating a gentle ripple. Resonating a vibration in the chest. A gentle, melancholic rhythm - a liquescent tintinnabulation.

 

A much louder stream erupts noise.

​

Tiny claw marks embedded, cast forever into plaster. A little bird must have trotted along and unbeknownst to itself, left behind a trail of its existence,

‘I was here’ says Mr. Bird.

An accidental imprint, a mistake memorial.

 

            *         *          *

 

There is a gentle stillness to this evening.

 

The nostalgic coo and low call of the ever-familiar woodpigeon echoes my solitude. Mauve and deep purple red plumage, chest puffed out against harsh winds,

 

holding tristful weight

 

each petrol grey feather,

 

suspended at

​

​

each undulation,

each dip

 

in avionic flight.

 

There is an air              to this heaviness.

There is an intense calm     to this loneliness.

 

I feel surprisingly settled for the first time in ages.

 

The fine mist of rain colours and speckles my eye, igniting candle flames inside my chest at moments unpredictable.

A jolt every now and again, a dart to the chest.

 

 

Rain shows things as they truly are, and yet they themselves, in their greyness, in their rundown discarded scaffolding and incessantly torrent dampened soppiness, become rhapsodical love affairs, elegiac expressions of love for themselves, as for I.

 

Perhaps I am rediscovering

 

the joy of being alone,

the wistful utterings 

the endless possibilities of my own mind,

just for me.

 

Rain today, is a mystified and melancholic suggestion of self, and the

ultimate descriptor

of the true romance of grief.

​