Unseasonal

My roses are burdened with rain,

petals sopped and limp as leaves

under this tedium of aluminium clouds

low as the hill will allow,

the wall beyond a block

to wilds of dripping berries and bugloss

and wilful water driven through narrows

where reed beds float.

Not much to summer now.

No bird sings in the bloat,

not even the challenging robin who

fled his morning fence unfed.

Even worms won’t rise

in the slickened grass,

its feathering staggering

at the slap of each drop.

The world is awash,

bound in by trickle and flow,

as I am here,

at the waiting edge of light and night.