And so the heavy rains came at last.

Oh well, he had gone about the business

with his usual desperate abandon.

Alone, distracted, monosyllabic.


And her smile set with tinged resignation,

as, in the doorway, she waved away

the cold breath of evening that had rolled in

from the plain's gust of lingering light-shade.


Grey could be such a beautiful colour,

missed in the rush for golden prime spots,

in the flicker between transient days.

His steps receded into sucking mud.


Away - past the old stile and empty field

left fallow with fallen promises.

At least the well will fill now without heat.

And it is about weather, isn't it?