Nightingale

For Susmita Bhattacharya

For those of you who don’t like the rain
why don’t you take your umbrellas
and try living out in the desert
living out under the moon
under that lovely light
which can’t be doused.

No atmosphere
but an atmosphere of romance
shining down on us,
up there above the nine to five traffic.
When the homesickness
gets too much
when you miss
the rain on your skin
or fancy a cup of tea
which you surely will
why don’t you come home
and tell us about the mirages
tell us about the camels.
I’ll still be here
looking out of the window
breathing that sweet air
and tapping my rain dancing foot
to that lovely sound
trickling over glass,
cobblestone and tile.
If I ever get married
I’d like to get married
out in the rain
forty feet or so
above the dance floor of the street
jumping up and down in the air
where wild scavengers roost
fishing for free
beneath that honey-less world
above the shop selling science-fiction.
Rain spills out of the sky
as I make my way
from Friary House
after the nightingale
looked into my ears
for signs of the English language
but found only the voice
of Susmita’s parrot
singing a Jerry Lee Lewis song.
When I reach the old bookshop
I sit at the back of the room
but don’t hear much more than a whisper.
Right now I wish
I’d looked more closely
so I could now read sound
as it passes over lipstick.
Right now I wish
the nightingale were here
to translate your stories into song
to make cobwebs out of beauty
sticky enough to catch words.

When the nightingale was young
it chased the shadows of everything
through the flooded streets of Winchester
now it drifts above the city
passing through a flock of balloons
a birthday party in the sky
filled with the sweet shop breath of children.
Here in the house
of long and short stories
I open your book at random
every page is a window that takes me
to various parts of the world.
Mumbai. Cardiff. Singapore. Venice.
Literature is my passport.
Here with your collection
of short stories in my hand
I close my eyes
and imagine rickshaws and saris
men with firefly auras
walking through railway stations
with suitcases on their heads.
I imagine your parrot
talking on my shoulder
the wind taking us on its travels
bringing the other side of the world
to this sleepy town
this island made of rain
where the sun does set
falling every night
into the darkness
that makes us invisible.

Kenny Knight 
Picture Rupert Loydell