On this day of sharp and localised pain
I think of you as a disagreeable cloud that won’t
stop raining, or rather one that rains just after
I’ve watered the geraniums, or
you’re a cloud that hovers and won’t
rain when the garden needs it, blocking
all things cerulean, and although I say I’m useless
at standoffs, the truth is I know how to incubate
silence if I have to, so now, seeing
as neither of us is willing to concede even
a missed call, I’m forced to take comfort in
an artificial sunset projected onto Southwark Bridge
and the churn of river from the back of the boat
that flows like blood between sisters.