I came across this melancholy piece i wrote a few years ago ... feels like a "January" moment:
As i look out from the whirr and hum of internetted busy-ness that pretends to be purpose,
I see the futile insistence of rain drops to hurl themselves onto my darkened glass, from an empty world.
They only exist, tip tap, because of the melon glow street light, hovering, supported by blackness, above the shivering Mahonoias
That light sheds its daughters onto the window, amber beads, celestial, no visible link between them.
Newly sacrificed drops rub their way erratically downwards, plotting courses, subsuming all orange pimples in their path, leaving an orange trail like a shooting star.
The trail imperceptibly fades, leaving those randomised beads, no memory of glorious last moments.
Jan 2009
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