You sleep with a dream of summer weather,
wake to the thrum of rain - roped down by rain.
Nothing out there but drop-heavy feathers of grass
and rainy air. The plastic table on the terrace
has shed three legs on its way to the garden fence.
The mountains have had the sense to disappear.
It's the Celtic temperament - wind, then torrents, then remorse.
Glory rising like a curtain over distant water.
Old stonehouse, having steered us through the dark,
docks in a pool of shadows all its own.
That widening crack in the gloom is like good luck.
Luck, which neither you nor tomorrow can depend on.
- Drench, by Anne Stevenson
2 comments:
Found your blog when researching Pliny and have learned to love all your posts. This poem stirs my dark and brooding Celtic soul, and calls out the melancholic Viking genes given to me by my father. I will now go home and slit my wrists.
Is it possible that the photograph was taken at Mizzen Head in County Cork ? I was just there last September.
Very nice poem. I like the last part about not being able to depend on luck for tomorrow. Very dark.
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