I don’t know what it is

About the rain on the tarmac,

That unrelenting wet on the sizzling dry

That makes me feel an old lump in my throat

Not a hurt, not a catch, not to make me cry

But to make me see, Oh! How happy it made me

To canter in the field, pony prancing,

To dream I was a horse with a flaxen tail

Or a knight or a princess,

I saved myself so often, so very

Often.

When the clouds burst, turning the hills,

Sparkling, into Millais’ dream,

We would walk with our skin waxy and fresh 

Like the jackets we refused to wear. 

Like frogs we sprung through puddle and bog

And marked ourselves with muddy warpaint,

In those watery mirrors, we saw soldiers peering back.

Those days are lumps in my throat that I cannot 

Swallow, that I will not swallow,

For their light would burn my heart,

As they glowed through skin and years,

Through the rain, to a time gone by.