A problem with the overflow at my mother’s house has reminded me of a poem I have never managed to polish to my complete satisfaction. The first stanza seems to have potential, I think, though the line breaks still bother me. It’s probably ‘finished’ enough to post here, and I’ll be glad if anyone wants to criticise or comment:
A heavy storm has made the flat roof leak
and in the small hours, memories drip
from the bedroom ceiling. Unlike the rain
they cannot be absorbed
by piles of folded towels,
or mopped into a bucket, so
she paddles through them,
barefoot, towards dawn.
The poem was intended to be called something like All Hallows Anniversary and gets quite maudlin, but the fact I’ve thought about it now in August and under very different circumstances may, I hope, shake me out of my affection for the original idea.
All thoughts and commentary appreciated.