FN 15.2.11

There'll be a few of these as this process continues. The death of my brother six years ago sparked a lengthy sequence of poems, a few of them made it into the 'official' word file which still languishes in the something I have to do something with pile. Far more are scraps in notebooks. It's ironic that such a scrap is the first one from that particular bout of writing to see the light of day.

FN 15.2.11

No, not the sudden
Insistent requirements of rain
Pitching the memory
Maps of the county
Through the outlying limbs
The tilth and clay until reaching
The hard
Shales and grits
The geometrics of your death
Patches on maps it’s

Raining here
The drumming on the flat roof
Can you hear it?