Copper taste, drop by drop,
wetting the throat,
embracing laughter,
and hiding tears.

Tapping on the pavement
to some dance routine,
then harder as the beat quickens;
falls too fast and breaks
the pattern.

Waiting for the sheeps’ coats to shrink
and the dams to fill,
grumbling to the lightning
of its great impatience.

The wind pushes it on
as the clouds lighten,
the dance finishes
but the copper taste lingers.

By A. S. Ford

A. S. Ford grew up in a small village within Buckinghamshire. Since moving to Cirencester three years ago she has completed a Creative Writing degree at the University of Gloucestershire and has poems published in The Dawntreader and The Copperfield Review. She lives with her fiancé, their pack of dogs, and pet rat.

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