Fen - 8
To prove we were still English, we still sat
down to Sunday dinner, in that un-English
summer of ladybirds and stand-pipe queues.
Jean Metcalfe sent greetings to Cyprus when
it came, splatting the Windowlene like
a fat bee on a windscreen while over-taking
on the by-pass. What manner of weather
was rain. The sky gave no clue, still fighting
to be anything but blue, though a shadow
hung heavy at the far end of the hall.
And, pummeling the roof, stampeding hooves
slow marched at Coldstream pace across tile.
Cooing, dove-like, leaving our food, we went
to watch from my parent's room, explosions
of raindrops lifting the dust, flattening
the parched white grass. My father opened
the window, and we took it in turns to catch
the blood-warm rain which puddled in our palms
and sipped it like dying men in afternoon
films. The sun-baked soil gave no ground, as inch
by inch the water rose, and we lulled
into silent witness watched, to a background
of love songs on the Robert's radio.
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