Rain over Partington
The rain has stopped, and it is time for her to go out of the castle.
The slope before her is dustless, and walking down it may render her shoes
Mud-stained but not waterlogged.
There are no trees, no birds, not a soul in sight,
And she dangles a handbag by her side like a pendulum, to balance her gait.
She has broken the grandfather clock with her Swiss watch,
And now she carries the coin-like watch-face in her purse.
A post-castle souvenir, with Roman numbers.
The view has never been so vast. She felt a little horrified,
Pausing at the suspending bridge, below which the water runs cryptic
In the ditch between the inside and the outside. Half full.
Living took her in the pre-castle phase, and in the castle, she takes life,
While her soul stands out of her body, injecting stimulant.
Now, the world has taken on another face. She accepts everything,
As neither buds nor flowers can be kept fresh for long, even if they avoid direct sunlight.
Their promise may be time-conditioned, but the feel is real, better than the real.
The elastic suckers of the rain slipped on the windowpane;
Rain has a language of its own, onomatopoeic, atemporal, but it too becomes easily
Bored of its reiteration that beloved ones would invent a way to indulge and sustain,
And avoid the expression of love and longing.
Souls, once flown out of their hosts, can be tele-mated,
And a rain or window poses no hindrance, a slope not a slide.
Now they put talks into silence, and end up with a hackneyed joke
That the rain makes itself a better company by keeping overstaying guests.
May 6, 2010