Headache Weather

I feel like shite,
all heavy and empty
and ma tears come fast
in headache weather.

The days are close,
the nights even closer
and the dishes pile up
in headache weather.

In headache weather
the sun presses hard
on a cloud-laden sky,
and the grass is soft with rain.

In headache weather
the air grows thick
‘til breathing constricts,
and a breeze is no succour for pain.

The potentially limitless
bounds of my human conscience
are compressed to a fist
in headache weather.

My neighbours are confused:
taps aff, brollies up
and the pubs are all hoatching
in headache weather.

Still, I feel so alone
all hung up to dry,
and my thoughts turn to death
in headache weather.

To daily deaths like skin and hair
and fruit flies by the bin,
or to muckler deaths, raw and vivid
in headache weather.

Still, this too shall pass,
and with coming light there’s
a freedom in the air

Freedom to breathe,
to shed the shackles of pressure
and for one more year
to forget
all about
headache weather.

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