Sitting on a timber chair, under a tree,
the clouds came rushing across the city
and dropped a flood of rain upon the university quadrangle.
Ivy hung off the stone buildings, peeling away from the ancient walls
And yellow lights came through the leadlight windows
In a warm glow, like comforting winter fires.
I arose and walked under cover.
Earlier, I had spoken to some English students.
“Why do you write?” one girl asked me.
I looked at the faces before me,
They were bored, and I had lost them.
The teachers sat down the back of the class; their eyes fixed on me like predators,
While the students sat with wide eyes, all blank looks and casual clothes,
With years ahead of them,
Years to achieve their dreams,
But more likely not.
Finished, I walked out of the class
And sat in the chair under the tree.
I thought about the time the fox had eaten all her chickens,
On that old farm
And she had cried
As rain clouds gathered over the lake.