May 2014
If you were rain you’d drop round every day
tapping at my window like a stalker.
Moon blocked with that shrouding puffa jacket.
On nights like this when my drained thoughts, too dry
to even steam, patter to your corner
of the brain, rumba to summer thunder.
I am under a cloud, waiting for you.
If you were the sun you’d come less often
surprising me with wonder blue mornings,
long passionate afternoons.
There’s hours like this I’d die of warmed up greed.
I understand how Pagans must have sighed
as your visits grew shorter, your light dulled.
Be rain! Shower me tonight and often.
Originally from North Wales, Roddy Williams lives and works in London. His poetry has recently appeared in ‘Popshot;, ‘The North’, ‘Magma’, ‘The Frogmore Papers’, ‘Obsessed With Pipework’ and other magazines. He is a keen surrealist photographer and painter.