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Wendy French

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Monsoon

For Rachael

In Taipei it’s raining cats and dogs
in the flower market, and a man s rushing
to the launderette, Chinese laundry,
as we’d say back home.
He’s balancing the black umbrella
protecting his plastic sack because
warm rain electrifies the streets.
Inches of water flood our feet,
the sun’s beams beat on our backs.

I’m never quite sure why the heat
made this moment the moment
that leads you away from the market,
me towards it. I say, you do
your own thing, we’ll meet later.
The smell of sown oriental seeds
and stem ginger with the rain washes away
my ability to think. Later, my excuse is,
you can’t find a second in this crowded city.
Motor cycles, hooters, HGV’s
on top of each other with the high rises,
breathing down every square inch of thought.

But at the very moment of speaking
I step into the shallows of a river
and concerned with my new shoes,
lose interest in negotiating the monsoon
that’s blowing between us.
The words are out, you’ve gone,
and I enter the luxurious marquee
of purples, pinks, bamboos and orchids
dry in an empty wealth of space.

 

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