A Waiting

Poetry, that mysterious current, peering

Into the history of a London Brick

The hands that handled it

The swear words that blessed it

The rocks that bore it, is

Reduced to an arid river bed,

A trickle, maybe

Exposing the rounded pebbles, granules and grains

And hereabouts a lack of discarded prams

Or supermarket trolleys

Here, the sky and the earth speak

Kindly to each other as scorching sunbeams

Do their work

And take the riverbed into a sabbath of sorts

A waiting

As am I. Head down function

Has usurped music, art, feeling.

I once walked along the Stour

With no shoes, in and out of reeds and

Left-over shallow pools

From the days of rain

A temporary lapse, that’s all

So, here I am

Standing where the stream was

Looking to the heavens

Waiting for a cloud

The size of man’s fist

That’s all I need, Lord, signs of

A torrent on its way