It Is Raining

by John Stocks

It is raining, they are making love.
It drums against her attic window.
She sighs wearily, ‘How can I paint the rain?
It is too fluid, amorphous, like a living thing.’

Instinctively she has painted from above
Spare, taut sinews, smooth white cheeks,
His broad shoulders, the animal curve of his back,
Dishevelled, tangled hair frozen in time.

Why this desire to fossilise transient passion?
She cannot paint the breathless ecstasy,
The warping of consciousness, call it love,
The dreams that leave her baked in sweat and moaning.

Alluded to, with little bruises on her skin
A half-empty bottle by her bedside,
The flower vase tipped over on its side,
And bedclothes tossed in disarray.

She thinks this is martyrdom, not closure,
Yearning for a time she felt alive,
Charged with wild, electric passion.

It is raining, they are making love.