by Ruth Padel
You close your eyes so you can’t see the omens.
You try praying for rain. You wait
for an augury, sing to the brook
while the self flies out and away
like a bird from a withered branch
and the wind, with a hollow sound
like a breaking pot, whips the lake to a dance
of bubble-froth soap-suds, blocking the drain.
Last updated October 27, 2022