20 March 07
The patio floor of night-cicak grey,
the southeast sky a menacing grey,
the window frame, a two-tone grey,
with the plunging, light-provoking rain.
The bulbul pair in perching grey,
the water filter coating grey,
the garden rake is waiting grey,
with the plunging, coagulating rain.
The palms rise up on background grey,
the flooding of a tarmac grey,
my tee shirt of a tight-hug grey,
with the plunging, irritating rain.
The roof top graining pipe flowing grey,
the mosquito net, a keep-out grey,
the post box in a merging grey,
with the plunging, low-fat, upright rain.
The post-breakfast kitchen table grey,
the floor covering is water-from-the-dishes grey,
the prepare for midday fresh-fridge grey,
with the plunging, tomato-lettuce rain.
The thick clouds break in the thunder grey,
our talking turns to can’t-hear grey,
a picture of a cold-war grey,
with the plunging, bombing-rocket rain.
We talk of country frontier grey,
the Pyrenees and Andes grey,
then waltz on to old-time music grey,
with the plunging, ruan, pipa rain.
The birds wait it out in tree-wet grey,
a solo petite-run mongrel grey,
the girls wear gear-against-water grey,
with the plunging, motorcycle rain.
Waiting here in a prison grey,
the fingers type computer grey,
It’s not this-time-of year-wet grey,
with the plunging, uninspiring rain.
I wash thaw gut red snapper grey,
the noise of turning-mixing grey,
the bubble of a steam-rice grey,
with the plunging, whining, hungry rain.
