The Weeping Garden

It’s terrible! – all drip and listening.

Whether, as ever, it’s loneliness,

splashing a branch, like lace, on the window,

or whether perhaps there’s a witness.



Choked there beneath its swollen

burden – earth’s nostrils, and audibly,

like August, far off in the distance,

midnight, ripening slow with the fields.



No sound. No one’s in hiding.

Confirming its pure desolation,

it returns to its game – slipping

from roof, to gutter, slides on.



I’ll moisten my lips, listening:

whether, as ever, I’m loneliness,

and ready maybe for weeping,

or whether perhaps there’s a witness.



But, silence. No leaves trembling.

Nothing to see: sobs, and cries

being swallowed, slippers splashing,

between them, tears and sighs.