Current Scribble

2012

Notes for a Life of Drizzle

Drizzle now was getting on
        with sogging up the moss on top ---
soft water; soppy stuff. Drizzle pipes down
into a deeper trap: old england young no more.
        Drizzle wrote about a milliard florets,
how they star a damp mill-floor.
        Drizzle was woken, woven with a woman.
feeling elder twined to sycamore. Drizzle stood about
a broken concrete square. Drizzle worked here
once before. Drizzle used to watch the waste debouch.
He couldn't stop it belching forth.

Drizzle left the weavers uo in heaven.
There they dwell no more. It was a place
of paupers with their broken looms
attempting to keep warm. But they were better off
than them with worms way down below
        at bottom and not well at all.

At the mill they were long since burning fires
in a picture of hell. And here I come in
from up on the bank where I'd been
dreaming of her tractor haunches,
pleading, Come on love and pull us off
all afternoon at harvest-time. He'll never more spark up
his tractor-bird to purr and moan.

But who is this woman in drizzle's life?
He met her up at that village in heaven
on a gala day where she was out in all
pastiche regalia: beribboned shires
of smaller county towns. So like a horse
with drizzle in her forage, and with soppy tunes
of oten reed, as I recall.

Drizzle goes after rainfall, startled by
some sudden sunshine. I've been sozzled
by some sudden rainfall, and the green grass glows
like green glass. There are gaps in the flags:
wild mallow. Drizzle is evaporating still.

Now it's no use asking drizzle if or whether
water-spirits do like drinking water. Happen not.
Drizzle was unbusily unthinking thoughts,
unthinking backs up drizzle's lane.
At school they taught us one or two of all
the pitfalls. There are holes up on the moor.
Streams fluted down from heaven get
polluted and abluted here.
        There are always a few gnostics
knocking around in a resonant verse,
whose every notion is a gnosis
newly branded. Issues stream
        from heaven down.

When it rains down from heaven, it really rains.
When it clouds over bradshaw brook we'll have
        a curdling of cuddles emotion, a condition
like feeling cuckoldry like a bloke. Now down
bank bottom there's a well half-fallen-in ---
and here's the ghost of where there used to be an inn.

Drizzle and I have a lot in common. We both
think heavenly articles give clothing to a song.
Well drizzle for the end so long.