Playful

Some playful god

Has spilled warm cider

Across the sky;

Giving orange edges to

Grey flamenco-skirt clouds.

Phantoms of the

Dance of night –

Left exhausted, happy below –

Appreciate the mischief.

We sat at the Bar.

“Rivers are the ribs of the land,” the

Sounding-wise stranger said, eyes twinkling,

“When you buy a field

You’re buying the water:

That it has to offer –

For beasts, for crops –

Or such as it will need.”

Three whole hours

We sat at the bar

While the four-week storm cold

Threw itself at our windows, walls and lives.

Weaving home – the worst for cider –

I marvelled at the fact

That he hadn’t paid for a round.

26/4/2013