Alan Weadick

That Time

There was that time
When the rain
Just would not stop

When, with each new visit
To the windows,
Our minds darkened

Another shade
Under that unchanging sky.
“Ridiculous!” we exclaimed

Under our breaths, just
For something to say
That sounded close

To us the day before
This clamming up
Under our skins

Where it was once thought
The light came from
And the heat lived

Generated by millions
Of unremarkable

Between sensible cities
That could never shut down
Or be known, entirely.

Not this catastrophe
Of rain, every drop
A brick in the odd

New constructions
Rising up fast
With what was left

Of us in mind,
Far-sighted creatures
Making the constant

Farewell gesture
Of legs through water
Kicking skyward.

Alan Weadick is from Dublin. His work has been published in the original Burning Bush, Books Ireland, Crannog, Cyphers, Nth position, The Argotist and Roundtable Review.