When the grey rain comes drowning

When the grey rain comes drowning though pastel,
washing a turquoise bench near two curved palms,
sadness. A numbness in hard red hands and sandals
streaks the blinded window with moist rinsed songs.

Many's the picture that curls in a cork-board frame or
gathers dust in an obscure drawer, recoverable only
when, in late August, crickets can be sensed at dusk
or black passerines fly headstrong into thunderstorms.

There was a photograph of you I almost missed, a profile
shot in late summer when the smell of leaves turning to
crimson begins eclipsing the promises of spring. Winsome,
you shyly teared, but we laughed about it later over wine