by Louise Fazackerley
R.S.V.P.
I invite you
to love
the rain, yes,
the rain in the North;
this childhood, sat at an open door,
awed as seaweed-skirted girls
fall, land and lift in perfect imperfect circles,
my book abandoned, to watch a ballet in the back-yard.
Still now, the hair rises at the nape of my neck,
I’m just shopping yet the tarmac strip at the precinct is
puddled and so mapped with these white flats of trodden chewing gum,
like a cityscape, from my birds-eye view. Let hoods fall!
Streets become streams, roads become rivers, ride waves
to the call of woods and beck.
In the never-dry we will hop from broken stone to slice of tyre.
Stick out a tip of tongue to taste and swallow smoky, cloud-fall spit,
wear water wear water wear water as clothing and just as sand calls to sea,
so the glass in the windscreen of my car cups to kiss raindrops.
Later we womb warm back indoors
a faint acid house soundtrack plays
pitter patter
pitter patter
pitter patter
From ‘Bird St.’ (2020) The Secret Writers Club
Address details:
Outside Prism Contemporary
