A collection of my autobiographical poems |
Spring has descended with all her savage fury, altering the urban landscape as office workers scuttle to their cars, umbrellas held aloft. A raindrop scurries downward, helpless against gravity's endless allure. Reflecting a microscopic world in a single bead of water. Sodden, slippery leaves, trampled. A smooshed mess of autumnal browns abandoned for the newest spring fashions. Bloated with dark malcontent, clouds glare, spitting contempt and disapproval. Roiling, a mass of greys and charcoal. Broken umbrellas, discarded, abandoned. A splotch of vivid fuschia with arms askew and limbs in awkward disarray. Each puddle a glossy mirror, disturbed by every vibration, rippling in concentric circles. Drinking greedily and lying in wait to confront the unwary. Blades of grass bending under a soggy burden, flummoxed by the sheer weight of sweet rain water. Glossy and shiny in the dim glow of streetlights, bowing face down to the ground. Half a man's boot print in the mud, outlined in deep, rich brown ridges. Mouldable, yet vulnerable to a swift demise. A rust stained drain, sturdy arms outstretched, undaunted by torrential forces. Unbending, unrelenting, staunchly parallel and dead straight. Twigs wrenched from shelter, tossed and thrown about the street at the whim of the wind and rain. A small fork, with one tine a touch shorter than the other. A scrap of paper, once crisp, now soggy, drowning in depths it can't absorb. Bleached of colour, its ink washed away along with all meaning and purpose. The street is a canvas of mottled grey and dark shadows, painted with the amber glow of streetlights and headlights. Spring's violent rampage steals the scene. Free verse. Written 11 September 2015. |