Saint John

The dark heavy rain has been falling forever,

mud oozes around my boots, tries to immobilise me.

I shiver as the cold wet pours down my face,

through my coat, into my Wellingtons.

I pray to Saint John, whose small yellow flowers

I consume with the hope of salvation,

although I am tempted by digitalis.

Then one day I wake, the sun has come out.

A miracle. I thank St John and whatever else 

has somehow saved me.

My feet are light as my heart as I walk through the fields,

the low winter sun makes autumn leaves

into stained glass and streams into living crystal.

The rain will come again,

it always does. But for the moment

I turn to my long winter shadow

And shout

‘Fuck you!’

My voice echoes off the hillsides.