Tap-dance rain drowns a dream I came close to remembering. Instead it drifts into the rhythm of
water on a skylight and all is lost, for now. The hazel tree is losing its zest too and will soon shed
the grace this garden has been gifted with until time passes and comes again for it to shine. Sleep
is dominant in this house for those etched into their cocoons like driftwood stuck on a silken sand
as I watch the wane of Summer from the safety of the back porch in bare feet, a tightly bound
dressing gown about my form. There is sky. Always guaranteed sky. Today it is blotched with
uneven putty, badly spread, finger prints scald the clouds. Cause a dissonance. A red
tractor burps and trundles on the crooked road and pulls a trailer stacked with black turf, from
the bog beyond, on the hill before the sea. I envy the recipient of this bounty.
The assurance it brings. The promise of long nights stretched before a blaze of light, a
something to anticipate like tea and toast while clad in woollen socks, tossed pages on the
coffee table, a blasé of acceptance for the days to come. A waiting for the embers to turn shock
white and then a brief chance to rekindle them only with a soft blow of air, a stoke, an effort to
defy the inevitable chill I cannot avoid.
copyright; mary p wilkinson 2012