As soon as levities of blows had ended with a trough,
to moor the tarnished ship, the sky exhorted meddling clouds
with heavy metal whip. It rigged up out of branching rain
the shed for shaking shades, that incubates in whispered banes
the choreography of aqua-bells, cryptography of lips.
For what it’s worth – no payments made were paid in vain, no tips.
What had befallen must become the moments to outlast
when in the graving dock of sky the rainbow’s burnished grass
would harvest billions drop-size suns and draw the waterline
where ocean licks the sand and dries with every tide its brine.

21 May 2009