It is October. The rains, winds and cold
are angrier than usual.
They pour. They blow. They bite:
the spite they have stewed.
The floor of my tent is wet,
Though it does its best to stifle the smouldering
peat bog under the blankets,
plastic sheeting, cardboards
and sleeping bag. The peat bog
that releases slow, sticky
and stringy streaks of dampness –
there but not there, a simmering
Dampness that is stirred worse
by the condensation that
that hangs on the tent like a lateral bat:
the water droplets, cold, wet
And heavy. They burst like ice stalactites.
It is October. The rains, winds
and cold are angrier than usual.
They pour. They blow. They bite.
A poem for 6th Oct 2022 In remembrance of the late David Onamade 1962-2021 from his SORROW, TEARS & BLOOD publication by Arkbound. R.I.P David.