The Dripping Park

The dripping park:
black and sodden cotton,
the brink of dark,
exultant, the dripping park.

I am speaking Russian –
‘Meenya zavoot Danila!’
and you are overawed like a child.
You reply fluently so I stop.

You move beneath a pink umbrella,
and in the near night I miss you.
The rain meets your curls,
your white cotton.

The dripping park:
black trees and shivering ponds.
Cars are fizzing on the outside.

You step into a hidden pool,
taking a tissue from your bag
you wipe your ankle down,
your hair lurches over as you bend.

We are on the brink, the break of dark.
The lanterns lull.

We are leaving…
on cracked and caving paving.

© Daniel James Greenwood 2011

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