The Black Cloud

When I sleep I dream
of sunny days,
only to wake and find it
waiting for me.
Sometimes I try to reason with it:
finally, in exasperation,
you’re a cliché, I say,
but it never rises to the bait,
leaving me to wonder if
the world I live in’s a cartoon
and everything about me, drawn.

I half-expect
someone inside it
(whoever’s behind it)
to let down a rope ladder and say
come on up, into the eye
of the storm, let’s talk? But no,
it just keeps following me around,
every now and again
unleashing a hailstorm,
stones the size of billiard-balls,
all bouncing around me
as I dive for shelter
under the coffee-table,
or heavy downpours
when I least expect them,
or, worst of all,
the lightning-bolts
which always just manage to miss me
(of course, I reason,
it’s toying with me.
All it would take
is one direct hit
and it would have to find
someone else to pick on).

Some of my friends try to help,
hustling me into their
spare rooms and cellars
when they think it’s not looking,
but it’s always there,
waiting for me
when I come out.
Others just don’t want to know.
I have to say to people things like:
Pardon my cloud, or
What have I done to deserve this, you say?
I’ve no idea but
Stay back or it might get you.

Let’s just say that
when you have a black cloud after you,
you get to know who your real friends are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dominic Rivron
Photo Nick Victor

 

 


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