The Wreckoning

by grimbeau

Half a month’s worth in one just night: flash torrent chaos rains, freefall-bomber hits the skids…rainy, rainy skies, up since just gone three, realigning smooth riversides, knee deep down in autumn sludge

What a difference a day can make. Summer slams its door shut. Batten up and hunker down. Get the winter brain in gear. How lucky are you feeling?

Queasy feelings rattle me, the lift abruptly shudders , time to light a candle up. Something is lodged down deep, I dare not cough it up, spit it out.

I fear the consequences of seeing my black soul writhing before me on the cruel floor. The witching hour comes. The anthracite dog will not go out in this—

Why should anyone in their right mind? Outside we dry some fire sticks, make day light, watch the last bee suckle, have one last puff on the trumpet, set the drapes on overtime, Mr Hands! We sail for Costa Teabag

In sanitised thatch cottages sad eyed sod busters float before my Jolson eyes, some optimists wave resigned white hankies from upstairs windows, the others stare blank pure dread and sweep past on the ruthless ebb

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