The Wednesday Poem

The Puddle​​

Brother river, sister creek
are running free
but I, evolved from rain or flood,

hued asphalt black or infused with mud
wait,
my gravity constructed shape ready

for gumboots to jump in,
disrupting my levelled skin
with laugh and giggle, splash and ripple

unlike wheels, brutal – metallic
that jolt and spray me wide
on trouser legs of passers-by.

A gentle wind on oil stains,
unperceived before the rain,
floats spiral colour over me.

Clear reflection,
a mirrored sky or mystic pool
for thoughts to lie?

How deep am I
when winter-frozen beneath your feet
or shrinking in the summer heat?

Hello dog, come drink of me.

Andrew Hayden

Andrew Hayden reunited with poetry in his fifties. Andrew enjoys writing in both a realist/ observational style of the natural world and also the occasional quirky humorous poem.

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