The Rainstorm


The thunder is heard a little later after the lightening.
The clouds are falling.
The sky opens and the gloom is frightening
A storm is coming.

The world is by now post structural.
Confused about the meaning of the word,
Unclear which is singular and which is plural,
The thing will move on its own accord.

The revolutions burn and the machines turn.
The petty indignations in fat flames dance.
Tutor and pupil embrace and they learn
What will be will be in this game of chance.

The early sign of winter sneaks up on the senses
And thoughts turn to gathering some wood.
As the tales of summer become past tenses,
What was intended is now understood.

No wonderchild of love may resist the wind,
That whispers in the ears of the conscience.
Waiting in swirls even as the courts rescind,
In the name of honour, the purity of innocence.

Monday morning and another trek north
Challenges the realm of possibilities.
Asking too often what existence is worth
When it just comes down to probabilities.

All the days are filled with a chattering sound
About the thrill being the main attraction.
Tongues of varying sizes move round and round
Until all one does becomes an abstraction.

It is an evening shower. Two hug as they run
Thinking seriously about buying a jewel.
They find a room, undress and oh it's fun.
They dry their bodies with a single cotton towel.

Bevagna 31 10 2011