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Driving to Beaumont Leys (January)
Once, on dark mornings like these,
the rain just stopped,
we ran,
scattering light from puddles,
windows bright with promise.
Now, Christmas just a memory, our
headlights pierce the gloom and
we notice
fluttering from railings,
dead flowers in mourning.
Crying out in protest,
an ambulance weaves through
we wait
thinking it might be life, it could,
must be, a birth.
A crane hovers above us,
girders rising from red brick,
we stare,
mesmerised by drops of water,
scattered and reborn.
Morag Gornall
16.07.09
