The Slow Collapse to Rain : Robbie Frazer



Ah! And there it is: the slow collapse to rain.

I turn from the window, my tea now cold.

His irises clouded, skin a membrane.

Sheets: milk-white, hard, tight shroud him - jack-knifed, old.

Used to make me sit in his TV throne;

fed me marshmallows and paté on bread,

talked of strong women of Athens or Rome.

I turn to the glass: cars, wipers, bowed heads.

I touch our condensed breath. A drop balloons.

Outnumbered, it gorges, fattens, falls.

Later, when crocuses have come and gone,

his shed: tea bags, clear milk and overalls.

Hauntings of compost torn half-open, spill

onto crusted gloves and mouldering sill.

Robbie Frazer won first prize in the Brian Dempsey Memorial Prize competition in 2018.