The people were unprepared for rain,
Awoke to find their gardens gaping
Like the toothless mouths of the very old Their living rooms rained to rubble, The old entrances washed open once more. The place was honeycombed with smugglers caves; We lived perched on catacombs, Our sleep hollow, precarious, From having to balance the night long Above the unknown whole. The place was a facade
Over walled-up skeletons of chalk,
Scorched chards of chaff a wisped criss-cross Onto the ground; the foul rot of cabbage stalks, Ordure of the land; and skies like an incredible dream Of their own silence. All June the seagulls would fuss and croon Through the night in the outgrown sycamores.
It rained in July. Doubtless the people
Had really annoyed St Swithun. Let me lie with my face to the rain
A pleasant drumming on the heavy grass - Don’t even think of moving my tomb To any place of honour within walls - Till the land is rained to sea once more And my bones float with the tide. | 
