Quick poem for today, following another poetry prompt that riffs on T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’. I’m trying to budget my time this week – allowing no more than an hour for a poem – this will result in poems that are half-baked. That’s OK, I’ll pop them back in the oven to cook at some other point!
The Day Before That Humid Storm
A raw hunger begins growling
low in the scabbed bellies of rats.
The scratch of those starving rodents,
claws against crumbling river walls,
soft skitter by the riverside.
They’re headed to a moneyed place –
a city of changing faces –
with no cash for these ice cream days.
It turns out that Thomas was wrong
it’s not April that’s the cruellest
(that’s blessed by stitches of birdsong)
it’s June. Duckweed in the Lodges,
a neon, viridian web
that stretches out along the Irk.