It is dark here in my room now
under the clouds.
Outside, a wall of quiet sound stands off
and more acutely,
large liquid ruptures sound
that have escaped the holes in the gutter joints
and meet the shock of the ground.
It becomes darker still
but the sky holds its tongue,
saving the best for somewhere else.
I am, as usual,
filled with sadness that I refuse to call grief,
even though I walk with it hand in hand
through every day,
sometimes exchanging not one word.
Jim Conwell (UK)