In England, rain never slows this time of year.
Sun is always parading across Europe,
whether, dining on the floors of Italy
or lounging over the concretes of Spain.
Settling anywhere except on these wet shores
where light is no longer a trend, but a rare memory. Either way, I am standing on a Manchester bridge feeding birds with crumbs of desperation, giving them portions of my worries.
What they don't eat is packed away and stored
like lunch meat in the marrow of my bones, waiting for time and circumstance to unearth them.
As I look across town and pity her,
I see a mirthless woman prowling these English roads. She is thin-faced, a scarce reminder
of how life can betray even the well-intentioned.
I watch as she earns her living
scrounging for the loose change that strangers
dig from their pockets. I wondered did her dreams
also died in the rain? Were they destroyed by year’s imperfect hands?
On days like today, I await the promise of morning.
Will she bloom in her wake?
Or will this constellation of clouds be too much for her to overtake?