A sun that barely warms appears
to raise our hopes before the day
returns to misty showers. It isn’t
rain that keeps us here but clouds
which won’t invite us out into a dull
and grey ingrained ambivalence.
The tune we play – a sombre hymn,
a dirge to wait the sadness through,
a lay that quavers restlessly to be
away from walls imbued in fat and
static thoughts. Yet there between
the fluffy clouds and taut striations
loudly etched a wedge of fragile blue
resounds. It is a call we can’t resist...
© 15 May 2008, I. D. Carswell