I love the sound of piss on zinc
It reminds me of Donna's sleepy tales
of rain on Trinidad tin roofs
that she told me as we lay
in a Gloucester park
she reeked of
passion
and coconut oil.
The downpour
on the corrugated school bike shed
where Mandy and I
traded tobacco smoke laden kisses
and held our own geography lessons
The rusty dutch barn
in which we made hay
and then hasty crop circles
in that hay
and planned al fresco escapades
in the ripening wheat
come the sun
Of the posh girl
dancing naked
save a transparent plastic mac
in the deluge
drumming the upturned boats
as I drowned
drowned
in
her
exclusive
proximity
Before realisation that
it was the breaking of our 'summer'
30 years have leached out all
but the salty memory of those monsoon kisses
that creeps up my spine
At the sound of piss on zinc.
