The roofs here are
Made of tin and
Painted a terracotta red.
Dried blood stains that
Even the rain won't
Wash away.

The pink and yellow roses
In the garden
Are drowning, but I
Am flourishing.

There's a man with a
Red windbreaker, running, running
Against the wind and the rain.
Through the curtain of
Slate water, I can see him
And I wonder if he knows
I have captured him, pinned him
On this page.
I wonder if he knows that
Somewhere, someone has written
A poem for him.

I reach out one
Tentative foot so that I may
Feel the drops but not get
My brand-new jeans sopping
Wet.

The ink from the happy face
I drew on my heel with a
Fountain pen
Washes away down the gutter
With the last of the
Apple autumn leaves.

And I can hear the rain on these
Red tin roofs that
Doesn’t pitter-patter but
Crashes
Down on our heads.

The tabby cat blurs by
A streaking arrow of grey
Wet and wailing
Waiting to go
Inside.