Low Pressure

Ridge of low pressure,

Remnants of pleasure….

Clouds crowd

A rowdy rainy shroud,

A thousand thimbles,

Tepid tipples

Of anaemic, pasty liquors

falling from above,

To wet the baby.

The only kind of drama

That I can bear.

It’s the irritant in the eyes,

droplets that wash,

A mild cocktail,

Tears, of industrial trash.

In the pale

And the hail

I am a tree

Uprooted in the last great whirl,

Forgotten, when their windows shook.

Face down, I kiss the mud,

leaves browned,

a decaying bonnet

Only the roots are warmed,

in the suns now redundant glow.

I will decay

Becoming earth and clay.

Decompose,

For a chance,

to reign again.