(Remember Paddy Moloney?)
The rain has ceased to be news now,
and still the stirring in the paddy field
plays some wintercearig music.
I stoop, pluck and split open the heart
of a single grain. It holds ellipsism
Of a the tiniest amount of some Moscow Mule.
The lashing leaves play the tune you can
change according to your life and choices.
I want to be sad, but the sadness die,
and the music lives on.
Ilustration Nick Victor