qarrtsiluni

Nothing in the taps but a choke of air,
cracks opening in our skin,
the pond shrunk to a dull bull’s-eye
in a basin of mud, grass
shrivelled to bones and string.

In the night,
thrumming on slate, pooling in gaps,
hissing in gutters, slapping on stone,
whooshing down drains,
at last it comes.

As if a master-switch were thrown
the lights go on,
heads bob at panes like dark balloons,

then people flood into the streets
to splash and stamp and roll
in wet.

On the pavements
piles of night-clothes

rise

like river banks.

by Gill McEvoy

Read by Dave Bonta — Download the MP3

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