Shout hail

Somewhere it rains
Somewhere you go out
In the first shreds of rain
Wreathed in ice-cream breath
Not here
Here you stay in
After the lash
After the capsize threat
After the rimfire cadence snare
The ground and branches ricochet
In that frenetic St Vitas dance
Of tremolo ingrained
In the timpanic surface
Shout, hail
The rivers coalesce
Become trees
Everyone steps outside
In the bruise-belly afterglow
In the broken, fever-pale wax
Solemnly righting bins and barrows
As if these were the remains
Of reliquary saints, or fallen cricketers
Resurrected to defend the crease
Of warfare green limned in wounds
Of white-stained efflorescence 

Dandelion ticket

Still quite young
I have a map for sunday afternoons
Going nowhere, just the roar of mountains
The whisper of wet tyres leaves a wake
On shining roads with a machine-like grace
The first reluctant drops of rain
Where it pools in my hand
Still cupped to lave and scry 
Sets the mirror of the day to trembling
Distant thunder wraps her cloth around my ears
I imagine fierce and blinding
A ragged sky all crumpled
I wonder where those onward trains
Where they go, where they leave
These smeared signals black and white and red and green
Broken tendrils on the pane
I have a pocket full of earth
To grow a dandelion for my ticket