Poetry

Commute

They line up at the cliff edge, eyes on the storm clouds ahead,

nervously opening the umbrellas they’ve just been handed by the young assistant

about to direct them.

He asks a few questions, answers of which are stolen away by the wind

as it crawls through their mouths and hair.

Then he takes out a combined watch, compass and barometer, counts down

and gives a short pip of his silver whistle.

As one, the first group steps off the cliff

and catches the draft down to the city below,

floating serenely as their suitcases dangle by their knees,

carrying everything they need for arrival.

Another pip sounds behind them, and

briefly they wonder

how many the assistant has to guide today.

 

Poetry

A Day with Rain

The earth drinks.

Gulping down the sweat of clouds

like a thirsty doe whose energy

has all but been spent rearing her fawns.

 

Gullies are overrun by rivers;

old newspapers float by,

tiny boats setting sail for new land.

 

Giant mushrooms are held by the statues waiting

for the bus to stop by.

shielding the stone faces from incessant drops.