a wet sunday in wales

 a wet sunday in wales 

a wet sunday in wales 

the congregation of trees

swaying to the wind’s organ

their silver-capped rabbits feet

drenched with unease 

their mink stole’s incongruity

as black as the slag’s sabbath

the foundry’s wrought iron cold and wet

gates and railings handled with waiting

for the pub doors to scrape open

with the squeal of the trains in the yard

their steam depressed by the rain

dampening the hearth’s cold cinders

teapots steeped in yesterday’s tales

the length of this day

twice as long as any other day

when the sun was quenched in rain

of biblical proportions that the 

sunday school ladies label as the

libatiousness of the inn-keeper’s elbows

that never said a prayer other than 

to plead for a barrel’s life expectancy 

before time is called

both in the bar and in the pews

where both have been intoxicated by the rain

that exudes the healing properties of holy water

anointing their prayer 

dear god ~ oh dear god ~ never again