Rain falls in fat watery splashes

it soaks the garden,

and slicks the cobbles

It drowns the ants

hiding

in the cracks

It bruises the plants

hanging limp

in the courtyard

The battered parsley wilts in its pot

 

Rain comes harder

in larger sweeps

brought by the wind

and the fast rushing clouds

that turn the moon off

and on again

and off

 

The sky is black-purple

a blanket, a bruise

 

The bougainvillaea is alive, dripping red -

 

- not noticing the winter

or caring it’s night.