down on the Black Church
staining calp
rippling sheets off the slates
drowning underneath
cars and hedges and all the wee spots
the smell after rain
like lettuce
and felt
If I stood out naked
and let the torrents
beat upon my skin
and cried
I bet no one would ask why
they’d stare
and look
fine
but I’d get to keep my secret
I’d get to go on staring
up over Holy Trinity
to the breaks in the sky
and know that I knew
why rain turns calp dark
why church stones sweat.
Jonny Voorheis
Jonny Voorheis was born and raised in Dublin. He now lives in Glasgow where he is studying creative writing. His writing is concerned with the dirt and the beauty of his native city and with people who have found themselves isolated amongst the crowd. He has previously been published in New Word Order and Chaos and Flowers.
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