The Shape of Rain
I am a rain drop.
you see tears
but clouds do not cry.
Over England they excrete
ice crystals that melt
drop and tumble
marries colliding drops
yet divorce is common.
rain discs hit the London pavement
lose their identity
in puddles and pools.
This clump of small trees conceals a secret,
steep rock scattered slope sliding into black
amongst long tangled roots.
A high tunnel, arching roof, sharp cutting surfaces,
rock drips hanging,
umbilical cord sinuously writhing down
into volcanic depths now empty
silent and still.
Liquid rock ran here once,
the rock around us the scum that floated
on a glowing river extruding into up above
reaching out with fiery devils fingers
grasping at fields and lives.
Night is a cavern, a tunnel to the depths,
it can be littered with fears
haunted by worries, swamped by unslept sleep.
This primordial dark, this barren silence
is filled by the hammering of our hearts.
An apocalypse that is long gone into history,
still we feel the presence of subterranean death
hear disaster echoing across time.
Kim Whysall-Hammond is a native Londoner who now lives in the country. Each of her Grandfathers told bedtime stories about their adventures; escapes from Mining explosions, stowing away on ships and visiting strange lands. She always knew that she could do any of that, once her hair was cut and so didn’t need to be plaited each morning. Kim has been published by Ink, Sweat and Tears, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Amaryllis, The Peacock Journal and Star*Line.