I take my demons for a run.
Try to lose them in the grey air.
The road knows its way
between the trees.
The invisible world made solid
drums against my hood.
The fat patter brings back
that first night squatting inside
the ruin that would become home.
Windows just holes for wind,
the dark shot with volts. And company?
Those spiders weaving dreams above me.
By the waterfall, it eases.
A soft grey drift, like a good cry
in the morning leaves you
teetering on the brink all day.
The landscape draws itself
then erases into blank distance.
The green scent of decay
heavy as a fallen curtain.
Four subspecies of rain.
I keep on, hood-blinkered
through all these hills and roads
I carry along the dark bitumen.