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