Spring-fresh portent
Drowning broods
Eight droplets
Valued over an ocean

Sky, painting humour
Bristles shed resemble
Trembling shade
Mirrors facing one another

A lot of rain
Just as well
We don’t control the waters
     surrounding our borders
Or the ones inside us when
They break
​             and spill forth
​​                                  in regret

But at least we have Kodaline.

The thirsty fall
The swelling fret
They can mean worlds