And The Clouds Shift



And the clouds shift

slow as slurred speech

to allow a diluted light to fall on this town.

Commas of raindrops cling to branches

or drip from TV aerials.


Roofs gleam the way a flat lake would

on a summer evening.

The townsfolk creep along Main Street

wearing shabby clothes

and damaged expressions.


So much is unfamiliar in this town;

the irregular buildings, the cylindrical fells,

the baggy accent. A northern desolation

acting colourfully in some farcical charade.

A life as thin, as weak, as insubstantial

as the streaks of skeletal light.



John Rice


Please note that the poems are copyright John Rice 2014 and cannot be reproduced without the express permission of the author.

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