Two poems by Beth Brooke

Six weeks of drought

Last night I dreamed of rain,
gouts of it,
bursting from ripe clouds
and zinging down to earth.

I dreamed the hiss and fizz
of rain on pavements,
swelling puddles in the hollows
and the aroma of wet Tarmac .

Last night I dreamed of standing under
the sky, with my head upturned,
mouth open and eager
to receive the kiss of water,
as though it were a baptism
and I was born again.


I Will Miss You Today

I will miss you today;
The morning will be full
of your absence.
The hook where you
used to hang your coat
will glare at me
“See? He’s not here.”
Empty, it will insist I recall
the touch and blueness of
your winter second skin,
the way it smelled of you;
the way it echoed your shape.
And for the rest of the day
My heart will leap
at the sight of every passing man
in a navy blue overcoat
who isn’t you.

Beth Brooke is a retired teacher. She writes about what she notices and sees her work as being like postcards capturing a moment or an experience. She loves deserts and The Jurassic Coast and these places inspire her.

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