Rouse

The rain thunders,
Crashing against my headphones
While I walk,
Head bowed,
Against the wind.
Liquid shards -
Cold as ice; sharp as knives –
Pierce the music
I listen to,
Usually comforting,
But which today
Drags me
Further into the
Doldrums of my
Self.

Cars speed past,
Causing waterfalls
To rise
And drown
Already dying legs;
Heavier each step,
My trousers are
Fighting me
As the storm whips up
To lash down
From above,
With the music
Still spiralling,
And then
Cascading.

Through squinting eyes
Are outlines
Of familiar landmarks,
Not so far from
Home,
If that is indeed
Its right name
And true destination;
Everything slows
As
Children run by,
Laughing,
Splashing,
Without being touched
By a single drop.

They fly
At the sight of me,
Morose,
Soaked,
Dragging heels
With hanging limbs –
Beaten;
Parents shoo
As families
Arc and veer
While I continue
To stumble and slip
Through
The shop mall –
But I am almost there.

Out the doors,
Across the zebra,
The music
At its crescendo,
The rain
Ravaging my ‘form,
The wind
Penetrating my soul;
I struggle on,
Blustering blindly,
Each step
Statue-esq –
‘til I fall,
And I lay prone,
Raindrops on my face.

Spread-eagled,
Eyes closed a minute,
Every moment
Of my life
Bathed in mere
Simplicity
Recalled itself
To me:
The stones of Bray,
The caves of Howth,
The cliffs of Moher,
The island of Valentia,
Every foray
To Portmarnock beach –
And you.

Those I spent with you,
Too few,
But so simple:
Serenely perfect
And
Trapped in time,
With every wave
And perilous drop
One hundred feet below,
With every cycle
To a cave within
A secluded cliff –
Roused, I rise,
Perfectly dry.

The rain has gone
(without trace of existence),
The wind has died
(with no leaf out of place),
The music has stopped
(without echoes in my head) –
Now all I can see
Is
The surface of the sun,
Shining
Stunningly
On my front door:
I am home,
And have been
Since one minute ago.

Bush

No birds in hand,

Several in the bush,

Their chirping

Fainter

With each passing day

As I wait

For just one

To fly out at me.

Still

For so long,

My joints

Creak

Whenever I move;

Lifelessly hoping

For something to

Break.

Once

Too much happened

And then

There was nothing;

Something then

Threatened,

‘til I fled

Because it felt wrong.

Now there is

Nothing again,

And the

Rustling birds

Become restless

In the bush:

One-by-one,

They are flying away.