when i’m hiding it’s
only from rain, from the
scent of it later, a scent we
call rain though we all
know better
by now
june’s june again,
a promised spring late,
promising what was expected
so soon and not
given, not carried
with rain to the swells
in the pavement, not
walked home together through
streets when the bars were all closed and
lights beneath other lights
called it for good
when i’m walking i’m
walking alone, for the centres
of things i thought
i knew well, find now
is your eye, a
promised
spring
taking me home
Filed under: poems Tagged: evening, intimacy, isolation, life in general, poem, poetry, rain, spring, walking
