Gray morning, rain washes roses.
Mrs. Rafferty hangs washing in
hope of better things to come.
I approach this day with my
own hopes, searching for words
to make sense of turbid dreams
and my fluttering rock of a heart.
The wet black street shines like
polished chrome. Overarching
trees, dark green shadow,
scarlet blossoms framed by
yellow jasmine; so precisely
beautiful, as if there is a pattern,
a meaning, a language to reclaim
what has been lost in the rubble
and dust where killing goes on
as usual. Here, awash in 
apparent tranquility, bathed in
supple gray streaked with the
golden scarlet lightning strikes of
spring, there is the luxury of
an indifferent day. Thoughts 
of washing, words, color – 
the ferocious colors burning
in the gardens of this world.
 
 
-After reading “Wet Morning, Clareville Road” by Eamon Grennan