Some days rain has character and honesty. Wide horizontal streaks slam their giant feet on the soggy fields, the peaty vegetable patches and the almost black asphalt pavement, as if to make a grand point – summer is taking early leave this year, so don’t even hope for more warmth.
This summer I spent falling in love – a brilliant follow up to the natural spring tendency. It was a collision of two careful caterpillars under glass jars – the personal armour built on negative experience sang in the breeze, as neither were brave enough to let the other past, knocking on each other’s self-preservation instincts. However, no material is eternal. Glass breaks, ice sculptures melt and caterpillars, mimicking snails, find themselves under another’s protection and home.
This is no caravan.
Still looking at the world from the upturned wine glass, which I shall leave willingly or unwillingly, liquid hotness spreads over my nose and eyes. It’s so familiar and expected, as if I’d written it for myself and I am following a poetry verse by memory.
The next morning I wake up with a baby shell, fragile, begging to be broken, for I am a human, not a titan.
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