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by Chris Ingham
Still, early summer heat sat languidly
Upon my slumbering garden of dreams.
All was silent except for the fly's buzz,
Irritating, interposing itself
Upon my mellow self-satisfaction.
Eyes drawn now to the brewing south west clouds
Presaging the storm destined to arrive,
I closed my books, knowing the futility
Of my now deceitful tranquility.
My self-possession stuttered; I called you
And you came to me through the heaves of storm
Now we stand, we two, clinging together
Alone on our rain slanted mid-winter beach,
Keats' lovers fled away into the storm
Eternally possessed and dispossessed.
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