The thunder and lightning

over Bootle at least brings rain

to fill the pot holes on the streets

and roads that criss-cross this Northern town

overshadowed by Liverpool, overshadowed by

Southport, overshadowed by its own historic self

are cleaned and the raging water greets

the Mersey as it scampers

and rushes through drains

as if hiding, running, waiting to ambush

behind closed doors as it keeps a secret

apart between the beauty and beguiling

majesty of one and the faux old and careworn

of the other.

 

The drains take away all the secrets

that the rain scours with will and might

but the lightning flashes preserve the scene

of a world caught between two paths

of honour, two trails in which a God could claim

to smile down upon in each oversized

drop of Bootle rain that sounds

like the leftover party from a night boat caught

under Niagara Falls hammering on my window

and the erosion of the rock underneath

crumbling on my unstable sill…

these

are

the

secret

raindrops

that

drip

constantly

and eat away at my foundation.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015