Sitting by the open window,
the hairs on my neck crackle.
heat is condensing in the garden
forcing the drowsy birds into the tree
I sit waiting for a thunderclap
to whip me across the ear
or lightning to split my eyes
At first, nothing comes, just more heat
I am utterly impatient, the cat plays
with my foot, but today
I am in no mood to play,
not with this hallowed task
of window-watching.
The dull weight of low cloud
gathers overhead, this could be it
something is about to happen!
Rain explodes on the earth,
It's glorious, like watching
The demolishing of a skyscraper,
Bricks burst against the gravel
The world rushes down the pane
I gather up the pen, I am ready
ready to loose the ink
upon the page, fill this
blankness with bruises
but the hand clamps
but the head mists in cloud
I push on, sweet wet soil fills my nose,
Droplets cling to the sycamore
like beads of light, but no -
the link between hand and pen
remains broken, no connection
I might as well be holding a daffodil
or a pigeon's foot.
I glare at the black uniball
but it is completely indifferent.
I swap hands try to make a link
the other's no good, a fat punk
asleep at the back of the classroom
sloping off the side of his chair
I wrestle the bastard onto the desk
hammer him with my knuckles
but he just plays dead
This is enough,
I take up the A4 sheet
and hold it out the window
rain trickles down my hand
onto the page, it grows heavier
I feel like a superstitious father
sacrificing his newborn to a sea god
but no, it's just a piece of paper
stained by the invisible work of the rain
