The rain bounced on the hay shed roof,
Drumming tunes on the corrugated iron,
Before it filled the folds,
And dropped to the ground in an ragged curtain.
I listened to the rain music,
And watched the sky sit heavy on its hunkers.
Holding down the distant hills.
Sucking contrast from the fields.
My hand closed on the warm hay.
And twisting a spiral round my fingers,
I pulled it from its bed.
Last year's summer crackled.
And framed between its course and faded stems,
Was held a blood red poppy,
Which crumbled to the touch.
And the rain bounced on the hay shed roof.
