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
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.