Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011

Flowers Getting Wet

by Ian Rickard

               
The dawn breaks.
The sky makes shadows on a crisp new morning.
Sleepy-eyed, I tumble out of bed.
Around; of you, no sight, nor sound!
I’m on my own and you are gone and still.

Inside my head,
Interrupted sleep and noises in the street,
Once again say, "life is in the town".
Clockwork-like, a paper bought,
In deepest thought, I am afraid.
Might I nearly drown?
 
But you come and save me,
Springing from the Leader,
Nudging all my thought from out behind the lines.
With concentration wandering,
To wonder if I’m doing what?
I read my horoscope to learn my lot.
 
Unfinished,
The paper, a half eaten breakfast,
Never to be taken up again
I make a pot of tea and from the bottom to the top,
I see a destiny, there!

Inside the cup,
I’m a figure in the leaf –shapes,
Chasing you down through the dregs.
I see a cross, a map in china,
A hand?
 
Does this mean I’m fragile?
Or simply slightly mad,
Skirting sin and doing penance, when I can.
 
Will you?
Won’t you?
Can't you come and see me?
Shall I wait?
Sitting at a window.
Watching at the gate.
 
Should you call whilst I am out, I may be at the Launderette.
I shan’t be long just,
Watching flowers, getting wet.

Added: 27.04.2011

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