November was drenched in pitter-patters
with no wellingtons to rubber my toes from soggy moss
and muddy indentations made by the weight of
drip-drops precariously dancing on the tip of
bronze crusted iron hangovers.
Feelings as raw as maroon oxide grains
growing on my roof in degratory batches with every rainfall
doesn’t look half as bad in the winter gloom.
Now January can fuck off like her cousins birthdays and new schools.
Narrow stairwells reminding us that weeds in the drain
will be always be washed away by rain
like the memories of adolescent days and grey skies I claim.
Gravel always reminding us – why it drizzled that day.