Grey thoughts, like the low sky,
heavy with rain that doesn’t fall,
echo empty where joy should be
and anguish twists guts I shouldn’t feel.
Where is the summer sky?
And would it change one iota
this sullen, bone-gnawing vide?
Grass browns where the pavilions stood
and feet trod
and people laughed.
There is more to come, of this organised pleasure,
more tents and drinks and unnecessary eating.
As if the human spirit cannot entertain itself.
From the outside, I watch and despise,
but joy sleeps for me,
somewhere in the grey cloud depths.
If only the rain would fall
and fill the gutters with laughter.