through my fingers.
Never understood this event, droplets combine
into a puddle that I drink from each rainfall day.
Maybe there’s a patented container that divides
exactly down the middle, so I can separate the rain.
Decant the drops of sun strokes and leave
the remains of despair showers resolutely behind,
turning around then and facing myself square on,
I could push the lever to eradicate the fine grains,
- which reminds me,
there’s a watermill that grinds flour not far away,
a backthrow from a primitive mechanical tour,
it does the job as well as it ever did, despite change.
I sometimes feel my grindstone was misgiven, ill fitted
into a rythmn that was always going to be at odds
with my needed desire to produce a wholemeal life.
Mindyou, if the mill can continue to sustain all,
if it can survive centuries intact, I can flour a life,
scatter as readers over unused words,
mix in granary for ashes
- through my fingers.
