Rain

Tears from god. He always thought of that in the heavy downpours. The type where you can feel the stinging weight of the raindrops on your body, the cold water pelting your face. His mother used to call it that, heavenly tears. What was god crying about all the time?

He’d set off into the night just as the first drops had begun to fall. He’d smelt the rain coming, rushing to put on his boots and set out into the village to catch it. He’d grabbed his jacket but didn’t bother with an umbrella. He wanted to feel the water tonight. He wanted to feel something.

The sun had set hours ago and the hazy glow of the streetlights above him blossomed down the road he was taking. Each a branch up out of the dead black road beneath his feet, offering beautiful orbs of light to the angels above him, and who were threatening to leave. He saw how the sheets of the rain splintered across the face of the lights, little streaks through the glow like tiny missiles before disappearing into the void of the nothing.

That nothing welcomed him tonight as he walked. It spoke to him of a new solitude which he was happy to lay his bones within. The night and the rain were pure and wild, base elements that ravaged the world. He’d stepped into them before, drowning once and becoming lost in the darkened forest of his mind.

Tonight he just needed to walk. To smell the fresh air and feel the waters smother his face. The coldness came with the rain tonight also, and he watched his breath escape out into the air like his soul leaking away. He licked his lips, tasting the rain water; feeling the flecks of the divine in those tears shed from above.

The village began to open up into fields at this end, sweeping pastures plunging down the valley where the water would rush and flow like a tide on land, going out in a grassy sea. He heard nothing but the falling rain, but he watched as lonely cars moved slowly off in the distance. Little specs of light, haunting eyes that hovered across the fields where the main road was. What lives did those little tin cars carry? What stories and sadness did the souls within survive. Somewhere tonight he thought, one of those cars will fall victim to strong salty tears. Skidding and colliding somewhere and snuffing out the contents within. Plunging an unfolding tragedy into the lives of those who knew, loved and would now miss those dying embers. Collecting rain water in the crumpled remains of the squashed tin can.

His mind had become saddened as late. His body had struggled to move in the mornings when the alarm would ring in a new day like a gospel chorus. He muscles and bones a defying demon to the angelic blessing of the new dawn. He would lurk in the shadows of life, disconnect from the buzzing beast of the people he knew.

He only stepped out when it rained.

It would wash something away, something out of him. He felt it down on his clothes, the gravity of the water that was pulling down into the DNA as he walked. And he walked through the village, out towards the fields. Watching the clouds and the little lights that blinked in and out like struggling stars.

Then there was his own tired tears, that he could no longer censor. He would cry his own monsoon when he was truly alone. Weeping out to add to the rain until his forehead ached and his throat was sore. He let the ghosts in, and they would pillage his mind. Playing films in his head that he felt were on repeat. Never able to rewind or go back. Never flooded out by the rising waters that surged over everything, all but the things he most wanted most to drown.

He came to the end of the track he’d be walking. The huge brambles and blackberry bushes converged to block the way. Forcing a path would tear at the skin, ripping open the sore and cold meat that had begun to sting in the frigid air and water. So he turned on the spot, pirouetting like a shadowy ballerina in this hidden dark ballet. Watched only by the audience of nature which cowered in the bushes and the trees, watching for him to retreat.

He walked back the way he came, the roads now washing the rain water down the streets and into the gullies and drains. Leaves and litter sped on those miniature streams, washing away the dirt and despair. He wanted to open a vein and let the vermillion river meet these streams. Wash out the leaves and the junk of his heart and wring his organs dry.

Crossing the street he saw into the windows of the Fountain, the village pub which cast cosy a warmth in the sea of blackness. The huge fire was roaring and people stood and chatted around it with drinks in their hands. The windowpanes ran with the raindrops, tiny tears streaking down giving the people within a false sadness. He could not enter there, he could not be like that. The fire and warmth called to him, but he’d been burnt before. Touched by a heat and love that all too soon had smothered and gone out. He could still smell the dying of that hearth, still remembered the splutter and the death until there was nothing but ash.

He hurried on by, the rain not relenting. It still felt good, it still felt like something. Returning to his house, he stood in the driveway, looking up to the bedroom light which had been left on in his haste to depart. The little light behind the glass cast a shaft out into the night, like a lighthouse warning of danger. He took a step forward, and hesitated. Had he turned the light on at all?

He stayed on the spot and let the rain fall around him, off in the distance he heard the slow rumblings thunder. A struggling beast waiting to get up from underneath a mountain. The light in his bedroom switched off as he blinked the water out of his eyes. He dropped the keys he’d been clutching and turned around, heading off back into the night.

Heading off again into the tears from god.

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Into white, my heart remains

We can’t remember the beginning.
And were ill prepared for the end.
You wipe these tears away with shaking hands.
Kissing where you know life begins.
Yet all we are now are bodies full of leaves.
Turned by the autumn of memories.
Dying inside, as your winter descends.
Freezing the love and covering all,
in white tragic space.

Filter

With a tapping on these hollow bones.
Echo excuses.
Yet the tender skin, pulls you in.
These eyes blink as they reconstruct.
Speaking words that silently fill the air, with one harvesting look.
It’s these systems that are used, drummed out of fallen trees that stood watching over the dinosaurs.
Pouring that sticky sap into golden ears.
It’s seems delicious that movement.
Skin that sways like a moon tide, drifting into aching harbours.
Wooden bones, felled in a Pisces rising.
The sweetest time to hew and marvel.
Yet a switching off of this world leaves you vacant.
Wandering in that pasture where the insects buzz and sting.
That filter you use offers no clemency.
As poison needs no audience to flood the blood.
And you are now too far from home to be saved.
So we’ll bury you where you lay.
Covering you in shells and sweet kisses.
Eternally disconnected.

Come to disappear

More pain in her heart than a bomb over Japan.
She clicks her heels, but nothing happens.
More alone than home.
She darts into the traffic, proud and defiant like rhinos on the Serengeti.
This was her town, but from it now she runs.
Her tears falling like skyscrapers.
Down into the rain and the black streets of London;
that tries to coil around her feet.
The slinking snake of society.
She runs out, down and up into onto the lampposts until they change to trees.
And she feels the nature breathe back within.
The racing rats she leaves behind.
Throwing her phone and her tolerance into the trash as she departs.
This was never for her.
She comes now, out into the greens and browns that match her eyes.
Seeing the vista swim into view like a quiet paradise.
She comes here, to disappear.
She comes to survive.

WINTER DUST

(For Gina)

Words fall like the snow in the sky.
Each one unique, each one different.
Each one caught on my tongue.
Turning and melting in delicious fires.
This alabaster landscape calls to me.
Threatens to cause such havoc.
Yet stabilize my soul.
People drift to and fro.
Covered in dustings like the souls of Pompeii.
White, as the swan feathers that tickle my brain.
Forge deep into those drifts.
And slip away as the body numbs.
Falling into a winter dream.
Hoping to wake in the spring with all the beauty.
Released from mother natures warm comforting arm’s.

Efflorescence

Do you feel the change in weather?
The heart beating for the very first time.
Get down on the ground and listen to the soil.
The trumpeting pound of nature’s pride.
Beating like a dominance in my body.
Listen to my flesh as the drum beat breathes and sighs.
You turn a seasons within, devoid of the frost of winter.
Bathed in only the crystal glaze of summer.
Always sunny when you look my way.
A twice look biscuit fire that scorches my soul.
But I do not burn, I bloom.
Mesmerised and polarised in the dew drops of your joy.
The pounding of the flowers in the spring of your step.
Thump as the earth shakes.
Gasp with each breathe.
Gardening in twilight as you sleep when I wake.

Stacey’s friend

Stacey Stacey, with golden hair.
Three years old, and without a care.
Into the garden, down the path.
With a jump and a skip, out came a small little laugh.
She chased all the squirrels, and sang with the birds.
Muddied her clothes, and watched the cat while she purred.
For alone in the garden, Stacey found such joy.
Away from the anger, her parents, and toys.
The house always heaved, and weighted her down.
A trial separation, her father the clown.
Yet here in the garden, she was among friends.
The fish and frogs, in the pond round the bend.
This bright afternoon, while the social worker hovered.
She found a small butterfly, broken and bothered.
She picked up her new friend and cupped in her hands.
It quivered so slightly, like a small rubber band.
She tried to be quiet, it must be having a nap.
Peaking in through her fingers, to see beauty trapped.
But the butterfly was dying, having suffered a fatal blow.
The hand of a three year old, thrashing in her merry flow.
A tiny little creature, all alone in the world.
Dangerously surrounded by such chaos that swirled.
It fluttered once more then folded and faded.
Leaving the earth, so young and so jaded.
Stacey watched on, waiting for it to spring back up.
She wanted to dance with it by the daisies and buttercups.
Yet after a while, she seemed to understand.
So she buried the butterfly, by the pond in the sand.
And there she left her friend, encased with a tear.
The day she lost beauty, and found only fear.