The forecast is calling for rain. The birch I heed and heed again. They are not conscious! No! For even I, a lowly feeler Have trouble remembering them all. Five is far too many( You hear whispers of a sixth these days) And uncanny for the icks and acks Of dreadful impulse.
I feel awful now. The imagination dripping Like treacle Away folding brain The sky is falling on my head. Watch the language. I’ ll wave goodbye Until the sea bites back.
I run in circles to meet the spiral staircase. The brick, citric stone. Fathomed away and ground Savagely to glass. And up and up I go! All those faces I pass!
I reach the top of Chapel, and look out on the scene.
The Church on the hill Sitting by the side The prayers dying on the steeple‘ Battle me another miracle My son, my son. I have no father – Is there any chance, any at all, That you could be mine?’
A writhing of the hands. Once more.
Father and son join the sky. After the funeral I will not have begun to die.
Diego Nogales
43