There will be time to count the raindrops
on the window. Their tracks traced
with a finger pressed hard
against the horror of the afternoon.
There will be time to tune my bones
to the hum of the window wipers.
Their backwards and forwards
whipping with grief.
There will be time to unspeak
these silences. Their pauses peeled
off the skin of love till the flesh
is red raw and angry.
There will be time to find your name
amongst the clutter of clouds.
To dust down this longing for light
after the storm. To turn back
the cruelty of clocks to the day
we first met and the world stood still.