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Soaked

I saw you coming.
We all saw you coming.
Steaming through the drizzle-grey,
Eyes bulging blue-white fire,
Roaring maw threatening to devour us all
As you swept down from the hilltop
And you aimed for the dull, oily lake
Hidden under the black of the weeping clouds.

You utter, utter bastard.
A curtain of dull grey sloshing
Enveloped us as your fat tyres
Dissected the waters like a mad surgeon's blunt scalpel,
Gushing the toxic blood of industrial beasts
Over our faces,
Our clothes,
And our poor, cheap shoes.

The sound of your laughing engine
Still trailed behind you as
The cold, gloomy water on water
Slid back into water.

I squelch now.
Moorland oozes and rises from my toes
With every step,
The only consolation is that they lack
The peat bog stench that is your attitude.

I hope your wheels turn square!
I hope your ex slides mackerel and peeler crab
Into the stuffing of your seats
As I should have done to Him.
I hope your big end goes
And your little end shrivels
And affords you pain and misery and humiliation
For reminding me of Him.

Where is my hearth and my firelight?
Where are the rainbows through crystal-cut glasses
Of sweet, relaxing creamy drinks
That caress the tongue and stomach
As his hands caress me?

My dreams slid onto the oily waters
Under the miserable sky,
And whilst I try my best to forget the past
And pretend I am toasting marshmallows with
That recent new kindling,
Here I still stand.

Poor, cheap, squelching shoes
Oozing moorland misery.

Bastard.
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