It’s raining, and due to some confusion
with the letting agents
we’ve been unsure for the past few weeks
if we can stay here.
Today, we found out we can stay. The confusion’s over.
And it’s raining,
and it’s summer, and by chance we saw a peregrine falcon
the other week.
With the sound of the rain always drumming, always there,
we can’t hear engines
or people’s voices outside. But the worry about the letting agents
won’t clear up completely.
This is supposed to be summer, and the heating’s on. Also,
I can’t find a job
and it seems like it’ll take a while and it seems like
when I do find one
it isn’t going to be doing something I particularly enjoy,
as was advised.
Last year had a fair amount of rain, as I recall, but there were weeks
where you could go out
without a jacket. I remember, because while everyone else
I was at university; better, I was on study leave, so I spent my time
in the garden, reading.
But I will get some kind of job, and I will get used to the fact
that the confusion
with the letting agents has been sorted out. And it can’t rain
the whole summer.
Frog in the Rain
The entropy in the breaking drops’ brief mist
is the leap, and recoil, and leap, through haulms
and leaves, as I lean in to look, of a frog
with a dissatisfied un-smile; it wears the expression
of a security guard, or a wine taster, an MP,
the only ungrateful presence in drinking woods,
the vines are almost growing visibly, trees on tiptoes;
it flings itself on, into the hachure of inanition,
the scene, the green/brown, the bio-matter,
and I make do with the smiling curves of the oak-hollows;
I make out eyes in woodpecker’s wells, arms bending
like mind maps; the water falling is like cheering
that goes on too long for a passable intermezzo,
like the clapping of Christian hands, together, endlessly
cheerful, so I search again for the slippery amphibian,
the croaker, the life-cycler, the freed bird on the wet land.
Rain beat the hill
and the water, streaming through the grass, diverted itself
through the tent’s gaps
where my father, my brother and I sat around a stove, cooking
chilli from a tin.
My father cursed,
spoon in hand, at the conditions, while under the windup lamp
my brother read at Kerouac,
immersed in the true fiction of his life. And I sat on the airbed
waiting for an age
when I would face
the conditions of a storm myself, cursing, reading, even resting,
but not waiting,
when I would choose the books and read and the roads I took
and the tinned dinner.
( Samuel W. James is a new writer from Yorkshire, and he's been published in the following magazines: Allegro, London Grip, Peeking Cat, Clockwise Cat, Scarlet Leaf, Door is a Jar, Adelaide Magazine, Elsewhere Journal and Ink, Sweat and Tears.)
The Beautiful Space-