Below me, cars do their morning run,
ambulances practice scales,
buses meditate on tourists, tour guides,
and the way luggage takes off
without even leaving a note.
On the balcony parched pots
mint sage thyme chives parsley
geraniums begonias succulents
all plead for water.
Wellington’s winds show no mercy
and neither do I.
I have a play to finish, a poem,
a monthly progress report, a book review,
journal entries, guests to dinner, no food.
I’m on a marathon, out of steam
and losing it.
I fill the watering can, race smooth-footed
through the space between the windows
out to the space in space and tip. It’s ok on
mint sage thyme chives parsley
but at the geraniums it turns nasty.
From below I hear, ‘Fucking hell –
was that rain?’
I creep backwards
through the space over space and,
tea-towel over my giggly, snorty,
five-year-old response, reflect on guilt
and how rain falls on the just and the unjust
and, it seems, the just passing.
Renée
