I walked home beneath a blanket sky.
The clouds looked like homespun wool,
grandmother’s crochet at the grey corners,
‘don’t-spill-your-hot-chocolate-or-you’ll-ruin-it’.
I had hoped for the grey wool clouds to cry,
for the rain to fall from grace, for sorrow to
come alive like nightingale song in the cold beneath
grandmother’s blanket. I walked home today.
If the rain falls slowly, I can collect the salt
within my cupped palms. Perhaps I would see my skin
crinkle and shrivel, like paper with boiling water spilt
upon the surface. Perhaps my flesh would run.
The world seems to love old books.
Perhaps they can learn to love old souls.
