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
