La Niña
Spring slopes are still white in the high country,
while here, water spills from the sky—
erodes edges of roads, patience of a population
raised to roast beneath wide blue
and stinking sunshine.
Moss slimes over porch-tile patterns, rain
pools in our minds like a careful-what-you-wish-for
puddle, after what we assumed was eternal dry
now bogs the base of The Never Never
inside our folklore hearts.
Forecast claims this will continue. Already
I’ve seen warcraft sail past my kitchen window
skippered by ragged warriors, armed
with crossbows and determined survival
who challenge with their steely stares
Do not seek refuge with us. We guard our own.
But when I sigh down weeping streets, blink twice—
they’ve disappeared. Yet, these are no Kevin Costner
dystopian days: just the measure of everyday
grief, daily disappointment, our time of rain.
Windscreen wipers squeak upon glass
as I swish along a fretful highway towards
another damp building. Stench of soggy socks
and long-held breath wafts through airless
rooms. We shake out coats and hair
like dripping dogs. Pelted day and night
parked out on the street, the skin of the car
proves penetrable. Sky tears whoosh a restless
ocean, caged inside the Toyota door. It seems
I have captured the rain, or it has captured me.
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Kate Maxwell grew up in the Australian bush. Now a city dweller, her interests include film, wine, and sleeping. Her work has been published and awarded in many Australian and International literary magazines such as Cordite, Caustic Frolic, Sheepshead Review, Books Ireland, London Grip, and The Galway Review. She’s published two anthologies: Never Good at Maths (2021) and Down the Rabbit Hole (2023). Find her at https://kateswritingplace.com/
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 