“Rain in Curryane” © Mike Absalom December 31st
2011.

Except in Atlantis,
could there be so much water
anywhere?

The air I used to breathe
has distilled overnight into
a silver mist
that leaves me the painful
choice:
I must grow gills or drown
where I stand.

Watery figures,
still shaped like men but
carrying axes,
bob up and down along the
sodden limits of the forestry
feigning work.
I ask one his name.
Gillicuddy he replies,
naïvely giving himself away.
Now I know these gill-ridden
leppercorns are axolotls.

Since yesterday the rain has
fallen from the sky
only to flow sideways above
the horizon
in a shabby imitation of a
monsoon.

Midges have fled the
turbaries
and water boatmen swarm in
the liquid air
where once the sun burned.

Even the embalmed sunlight
from the turf shed
steams up the grate
and hisses like an eel on the
firelighters
as it struggles to reconvert
into flame.

Earth flows as mud over the
land.
and Noah struggles to start
his SUV.

Except in Atlantis,
could there be so much water anywhere?

I think I shall just get into
my bed
And imitate the drinking
habits of a newt.