Here it is not a warm alpine wind, but
rain of the vertical kind, the slow drizzle
held over us by the easterly, which might
be blamed for anything: mud, bad temper,
the sodden washing, suicide. This paralysis.
It is a mesh against the window-panes,
a screen blocking out the sky, so that
you cannot see which way to go, where
Doing nothing. Standing all day
scratching your balls at the window. Listening
to the old poet mutter in the guttering,
knowing how little he has to say.
waiting for that twitching in the branches
which tells you the southerly’s on its way.
[from MTFLG, McIndoe]
© The Estate of Bill Sewell 2004