Thick clouds roll over,

Thick clouds roll over,

A blanket,

Pulled from the edge of the world

To the furthest horizon.

A shroud, beneath which

Death becomes the living,

As we walk in sleep,

Talk without listening,

Hearing only the faintest echo

Of what is said,

And drown,

In a syncopated drizzle

Of slanting rain,

That falls with the staccato

Rhythm of a paradiddle.

A broken string of pearls,

Bouncing wildly,

Dancing willy-nilly,

Skidding over sodden turf,

Rolling like a billion

Tiny disco balls,

Scattering their music,

Into the grey quilt

Of a morning

Designed to absorb

The living and breathing.

Suffocating

The remains of summer.

Stubbed out,

Like a last cigarette,

Cold ashes float in

The grounded boat

Of an upturned shell.

An oyster that never knew a pearl

Resting in a soft bed

Of damp shingle

And hardy perennials.