After all that rain

After all that rain
all this …
I wake to see art.

Sitting here
with the clocks back an hour
I’m in bed with a coffee.

That bright ball of wool
is being tugged along
by cosmic cats
leaving its fluffy warmth
to permeate the sodden
storm-filled cloak.

Mist curls to chase
the mewing
only to lose substance and fade.

Art remains
to seize the day
and obliterate the night.

The lack of it

They appeared
in those days
as a feeling

and finished
I felt them.

I knew when a poem
was coming through
because of the pain

my head would be bursting
for days on end
and then a poem
worked better than pills.

Sometimes, thankfully
I’d get a weird gut feeling
and I knew
I felt
and I wrote.

Now I’m on different pills
so my blood isn’t boiling
my head isn’t bursting
and my gut isn’t feeling
so often

but neither is the poetry

(except for this 3am sleepless drivel!)

Those sounds

Oh but those sounds
they bring a certain
kind of something
to my soul

I close my eyes
and drift
upon each note
as itself

and there outside
the rain has ceased
almost as if
the clouds wish to listen
by reaching down
to become mist
to nestle against my windows
to glean
and so soften the night
as this music
softens and warms my emotions

until I myself
become the rain.


I bought two CDs today by Ludovico Einaudi and they touched me.