Cauht Under a Fallin Sky
A scything rain crops the high reeds.
Never saw the storm coming,
too busy rowing my mind
through its own river.
The ducks and herons have all gone
they have not flown away,
they have closed their eyes,
and like children have become invisible.
My rowboat is taking on water,
mouth open, I think I am crying the sky.
A small rickety landing
crouches from the downpour
maybe, ten slogging minutes away.
I make the torrent torn bank,
the battered truck I arrived in
has a cold,
its engine coughs, as sodden boots
pump a blind escape route
beyond its drowning windscreen.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2025
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