And no sweet whisper,
Or gentle sigh,
or finely crafted love note,
carefully composed ballad,
time-honoured tradition,
sacred vow,
could stop the roar of water
rushing through my ears.
In the leafy green shadow
cast by boughs overburdened,
hard droplets slap against the lichen-speckled wood
the wooden floor that warmed me from the souls of my feet
to the pads of my fingers.
Slapping, and smacking, and
rushing through my ears.
Bare shoulders to the moist warm air,
sturdy boots clumping through the gathering pools,
all emerald reflections dotted slowly with the coltish blue,
peeking coyly through the now relenting cloud-cover.
And you, everywhere…
In the steam rising from pavements;
in the tentative, retreating mist,
in the subterranean rivers of the city
coursing, racing, charging, pulsing,
rushing through my ears.