Down paw
Where I live it doesn’t rain
instead, a large damp dog arrives drenched, drooling and dirty
Its arse – grey-brown and stinking – descends growling
low, lowering, filling the blue
and crushing.
Tail flicks the branches
wet pelt obscures skylark skies, joy and our optimistic horizons
everything blurs and our ears are full of fur –
so there’s nothing but deluge
pitter-patter, splatter, rush and roar.
And then
just when it will never be dry again
the dog shakes, ears flapping clatter, splatters rattle the windows
and lopes away so we can stand again and assess
the legacy of mud
