Dull, dim light
Seeps through lowering cloud
The bright colours of yesterday
Faded to a universal grey.
The roses hang forlorn
Their perfume lost in the oily air.
Rain falls, pounding petals
With pitiless indifference.
How hard now to recall
The soft touch of the sun
On skin that tingles with the sting of steely shafts
And the brave spring song of the birds,
A mournful piping beneath the eaves.
How easy to fall from that quiet happiness
As we sat beneath the bird-singing trees,
The touch of your hand
Fainter now than the sound of raindrops,
Elusive as the scent of roses.
How easy to sink among the scattered petals
Into the clinging, sucking mud.
Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 