A Golden Shovel after ‘Fern Hill’ by Dylan Thomas
Funny how the spring rain unscrews the time
sending the clouds scattered ahead that had been held
fixed like memory for months, nowhere for me
to look; now branches drip overhead, fat and green
droplets like crystal earrings glittering and
singing on tarmac like there’s no word for dying
and weekends I walk up hills in the rain, though
with no destination in mind; maybe it’s because I
began to think the wind and the rain almost sang
from that slant, and maybe there’s comfort in
spending time like coins rolling into the gutter and my
heart is distracted by splashing wheels, bicycle chains
and wondering how I might gather weeds and drift like
a shopping trolley roaming the murky green of the
river, until past the car-park we get to the sea
