The Weeping Garden

It’s terrible! – all drip and listening. Whether, as ever, it’s loneliness, splashing a branch, like lace, on the window, or whether perhaps there’s a witness. Choked there beneath its swollen burden – earth’s nostrils, and audibly, like August, far off in the distance, midnight, ripening slow with the fields. No sound. No one’s in hiding. Confirming its pure desolation, it returns to its game – slipping from roof, to gutter, slides on. I’ll moisten my lips, listening: whether, as ever, I’m loneliness, and ready maybe for weeping, or whether perhaps there’s a witness. But, silence. No leaves trembling. Nothing to see: sobs, and cries being swallowed, slippers splashing, between them, tears and sighs.