Waiting for the Rain (I.P.)

The fresh shorn blades

dig like thorns in her back;

tender from the knife

and a surgeon’s dark news;

home at last from the smells

and sounds of a hospital ward...

the stench of sickness still

tainting her nostrils.

The sun beats down – buries

her face in the new-mown grass

as the scent of jasmine hangs –

heavy in the air. A sudden corridor

of wind; the trees rustle – a glittering,

green cacophony fair deafens her.

Thumbs the pages of a book – shame

it don’t have no happy-ever-afters.

She remembers that first sting

of wet grass on her thighs...his eyes

the colour of thunder; the ‘killy’

call of the kingbird of which it’s said

they live completely in the air...even

die on the wing.  But for her, all

that’s left is to stay here till morning...

smoking a bummed cigarette...

waiting for the rain, and praying

for a rainbow.